DJSVfaFF          r-. 

Cv       •          ^ 


THE  DISTAFF  SERIES 

Issued  under  the  auspices  of  the  Board  of  Women 

Managers  of  the  State  of  New  York  for 

the  Columbian  Exposition 


THE     DISTAFF1    SERIES. 

16mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  00  each. 

WOMAN   AND  THI   HIQHBB    EDUCATION.     Edited  by 

Anna  C.  Bracket!. 
TH«    LITBBATUBE    or    PHILANTHBOPY.      Edited   by 

France*  A.  Goodale. 
EAKI.Y  Pnos*  AM.  VKRRB.      Edited  by  Alice  Mon« 

Earle  and  Emily  ElUworth  Ford. 
Tin  Kixniur.ARTiN.    Edited  by  Kate  Doiif-lai  Wippn. 
HOUSSHOLD  ART.    Edited  by  Candare  Wheeler. 
SHORT  STORKS.     Edited  by  Constance  Gary  Harrison. 


PUBLISHKD    BY    HARPER    A    BROTHERS,     N.  T. 

GT  For  tale  by  all  laoluttltn,  or  win  be  tent,  r«*<*9* 
prtpaid,  to  any  fart  nf  tie  United  Slatet,  Canada,  or 
ilnito,  on  rtfeift  of  (A*  ;>ri'r«. 


EDITED  BY 

CONSTANCE  CARY  HARRISON 

' 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
MDCCCXCIII 


Copyright,  1893,  by  HABPKR  &  BROTHERS. 

A  a  riyktt  rtuntd. 


NOTE. 

MRS.  STODDARD'S  "My  Own  Story"  was  pub 
lished  in  Tlie  Atlantic  Monthly;  Miss  Cliesebro's 
"In  Honor  Bound"  and  Mrs.  Slosson's  "A  Speak- 
in'  Ghost "  appeared  in  Harper's  Magazine;  Miss 
Crosby's  "An  Islander"  was  first  printed  in 
Seribner't  Magazine;  and  Mrs.  Harrison's  "Mon 
sieur  Alcibiade "  is  reprinted  from  The  Century 
Magazine. 


438553 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
INTRODUCTION vii 

MY  OWN  STORY 1 

BY  ELIZABETH  DEAN  BARSTOW  STODDARD. 


IN  HONOR  BOUND 74 

BY  Miss  CAROLINE  CHESKBRO. 

AN   ISLANDER 116 

BY  Miss  MARGARET  CROSBY. 

A  SPEAKIN'   GHOST 150 

BY  MRS.  ANNIE  TRUMBCLL  SLOSSOX. 

MONSIEUR   ALCIBIADE      .-...- 191 

BY  COXSTAXCE  GARY  HARRISON. 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  series  of  collections  of  which  this  volume 
is  a  part  is  made  up  of  representative  work  of 
the  women  of  the  State  of  New  York  in  period 
ical  literature. 

This  literature  has  been  classified  under  its 
conspicuous  divisions — Poetry,  Fiction,  History, 
Art,  Biography,  Translation,  Literary  Criticism, 
and  the  like. 

A  woman  of  eminent  success  in  each  depart 
ment  has  then  been  asked  to  make  a  collection 
of  representative  work  in  that  department,  to 
include  in  it  an  example  of  her  own  work,  and 
to  place  her  name  upon  the  volume  as  its 
Editor. 

These  selections  have  been  made,  as  far  as 
possible,  chronologically,  beginning  with  the 
earliest  work  of  the  century,  in  order  that 
the  volumes  may  carry  out  the  plan  of  the 


viii 


"Exhibit  of  Women's  Work  in  Literature  in 
the  State  of  New  York,"  of  which  they  are 
an  original  part. 

The  aim  of  this  Exhibit  was  to  make  for  the 
Columbian  Exposition  a  record  of  literary  work, 
limited,  through  necessity,  both  by  sex  and  local 
ity,  but,  as  far  as  possible,  accurate  and  com 
plete,  and  to  preserve  this  record  in  the  State 
Library  in  the  Capitol  at  Albany. 

It  includes  twenty-five  hundred  books,  begin 
ning  witli  the  works  of  Charlotte  Ramsay  Lennox, 
the  first-born  female  author  of  the  province  of 
New  York,  published  in  London  in  1752,  closing 
with  the  pages  of  a  translation  of  Herder,  still 
wet  from  the  press,  and  comprising  the  works  of 
.almost  every  author  in  the  intervening  one  hun 
dred  and  forty  years. 

It  includes  also  three  hundred  papers  read  be 
fore  the  literary  clubs  of  the  State,  a  summary 
of  the  work  of  all  writers  for  the  press,  and  the 
folios  which  preserve  the  work  of  many  able 
women  who  have  not  published  books. 

The  women  of  the  State  of  New  York  have 
had  the  honor  of  decorating  and  furnishing  the 
Library  of  the  Woman's  Building.  Bulievin-r 


the  best  equipment  of  a  library  to  be  literature, 
they  have  therefore  prepared  this  Exhibit,  and 
have  made  its  character  comprehensive  and  his 
toric,  in  order  that  it  may  not  be  temporary,  but 
that  it  may  be  preserved  in  the  State  Library 
and  may  have  permanent  value  for  future  lovers 
and  students  of  Americana. 

In  the  preparation  of  these  volumes  Messrs. 
Harper  &  Brothers  have  arranged  that  the  com 
position  and  other  mechanical  work,  as  well  as 
the  designing  of  the  cover,  should  be  done  by 
women,  thus  giving  especial  significance  to  the 
title,  "  The  Distaff  Series." 

BLANCHE  WILDER  BELLAMY, 
Chairman  of  the  Committee  on  Literature 
of  the  Board  of  Women  Managers  of  the 
State  of  New  York. 


SHOET   STOKIES. 


MY    OWN    STORY. 

BY 

MRS.  ELIZABETH  DEAX  BARSTOW  STODDARD. 

"Oh,  tell  her,  brief  is  life,  but  love  is  long." 

"  WHAT  have  I  got  that  you  would  like 
to  have  ?  Your  letters  are  tied  Tip  and 
directed  to  yon.  Mother  will  give  them 
to  you  when  she  finds  them  in  my  desk.  I 
could  execute  my  last  will  myself,  if  it 
were  not  for  giving  her  additional  pain.  I 
will  leave  everything  for  her  to  do  except 
this :  take  these  letters,  and  when  I  am 
dead  give  them  to  Frank.  There  is  not  a 
reproach  in  them,  and  they  are  full  of  wit  ; 
but  he  won't  laugh  when  he  reads  them 
iigain.  Choose  now,  what  will  you  have 
of  mine  ?" 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  give  me  the  gold  pen 
holder  that  Redmond  sent  you  after  he 
went  away/' 

Laura  rose  up  in  her  bed  and  seized  me 
by  my  shoulder  and  shook  me,  crying  be 
tween  her  teeth.  "  You  love  him !  you  love 
i 


him  f*  '-Then  six?"  fpli  Ijaek'  on  her  pillow. 
"  Oil,  if  he  .were_  here  now  !  He  went.  I 
s4y,«th.'Ui;\.rtv  the:  won.a'i  lie  v  as  en^aiM-.I 
to  before  he  saw  you.  lie  was  nearly  mad, 
though,  when  he  went.  The  night  mother 
gave  them  their  last  party,  when  you  w,ore 
your  black  lace  dress,  and  had  pink  roses  in 
your  hair,  somehow  I  hardly  knew  yon  that 
night.  I  was  in  the  little  parlor,  looking 
at  the  flowers  on  the  mantel-piece,  when 
Redmond  came  into  the  room,  and,  rushing 
up  to  me,  bent  down  and  whispered,  'Did 
you  see  her  go?  I  shall  see  her  no  more; 
she  is  walking  on  the  beach  with  Maurice.' 
He  sighed  so  loud  fhat  I  IVlt  embarrassed, 
for  I  was  afraid  that  Harry  Lothrop,  who 
\va>  laughing  and  talking  in  a  corner  with 
two  or  three  men,  would  hear  him  ;  but  ho 
was  not  aware  that  they  were  there.  I  did 
not  know  what  to  do,  unless  I  ridiculed 
him.  'Follow  them,'  I  said.  'Step  on  her 
flounces,  and  Maurice  will  have  a  chance  to 
humiliate  you  with  some  of  his  cutting,  ex 
quisite  politeness.'  He  never  answered  a 
word,  and  I  would  not  look  at  him  ;  but 
presently  I  understood  that  there  were  tears 
falling.  Oli,  you  need  not  look  towards  mo 
with  such  longing  ;  he  does  not  cry  for  you 
now.  They  seemed  to  bring  him  to  his 


senses.  He  stamped  his  foot ;  but  the  car 
pet  was  thick ;  it  only  made  a  thud.  Then 
he  buttoned  his  coat,  giving  himself  a  vio 
lent  twist  as  he  did  it,  and  looked  at  me 
with  such  a  haughty  composure  that,  if  I 
had  been  you,  I  should  have  trembled  in 
my  shoes.  He  walked  across  the  room 
towards  the  group  of  men.  '  Ah,  Harry,'  he 
said,  'where  is  Maurice?'  'Don't  you 
know  ?'  they  all  cried  out;  'he  has  gone  as 
Miss  Denham's  escort.'  'By  Jove!'  said 
Harry  Lothrop, '  Miss  Denham  was  as  hand 
some  as  Cleopatra  to-night.  Little  Maurice 
is  now  singing  to  her.  Did  he  take  his 
guitar  under  his  arm  ?  It  was  here,  for  I 
.saw  ;i  green  bag  near  his  hat  when  we  came 
in  to-night.'  Just  then  we  heard  the  twang 
of  a  guitar  under  the  window,  and  Redmond, 
in  spite  of  himself,  could  not  help  a  grimace. 
Is  it  not  a  droll  world  ?"  said  Laura,  after  a 
pause;  "things  come  about  so  contrariwise." 

She  laughed  such  a  shrill  laugh  that  I 
shuddered  to  hear  it,  and  I  fell  a-crying. 

"But,"  she  continued,  "I  am  going,  I 
trnst,  where  a  key  will  be  given  me  for  this 
cipher." 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  an  expres 
sion  of  gentleness  rilled  her  face. 

"It  is  strange,"  she  said,  "  when  I  know 


that  I  must  die,  that  I  should  bo  so  moved 
by  earthly  passions  and  so  interested  in 
earthly  speculations.  My  heart  supplicates 
God  for  peace  and  patience,  and  at  the  same 
moment  my  thoughts  float  away  in  dreams 
of  the  past.  I  shall  soon  be  wiser;  I  am 
convinced  of  that.  The  doctrine  of  compen 
sation  extends  beyond  this  \vorld;  if  it  be 
not  so,  why  should  I  die  at  twenty,  with 
all  this  mysterious  suffering  of  soul?  Yon 
must  not  wonder  over  me,  when  I  am  gone, 
and  ask  yourself,  '  "Why  did  she  live  T'  Be 
lieve  that  I  shall  know  why  I  lived,  and  let 
it  suffice  yon  and  encourage  you  to  go  on 
bravely.  Live  and  make  your  powers  felt. 
Your  nature  is  affluent,  and  yon  may  yet 
learn  how  to  be  happy." 

She  sighed  softly,  and  turned  her  face  ti> 
the  wall,  and  moved  her  fingers  as  sick 
people  do.  She  waited  for  mo  to  cease 
weeping ;  my  tears  rained  over  my  face  so 
that  I  could  neither  see  nor  speak. 

After  I  had  become  calmer,  she  moved 
io\\ards  me  again  and  took  my  hand;  her 
own  trembled. 

"  It  is  for  the  last  time,  Margaret.  My 
good,  skilful  father  gi\es  me  no  medicine 
now.  My  sisters  have  come  home;  they  sit 
about  the  house  like  mourners,  with  idle 


Lands,  ami  do  not  speak  with  each  other. 
It  is  terrible,  but  it  will  soon  be  over." 

She  pulled  at  my  hand  for  me  to  rise.  I 
staggered  up,  and  met  her  eyes.  Mine 
were  dry  now. 

"  Do  not  come  here  again.  It  will  be 
enough  for  my  family  to  look  at  my  coffin. 
I  feel  better  to  thiuk  you  will  be  spared  the 
pain." 

I  nodded. 

"Good-bye!" 

A  sob  broke  in  her  throat. 

"  Margaret" — she  spoke  like  a  little  child 
— "  I  am  going  to  heaven." 

I  kissed  her,  but  I  was  blind  and  dumb. 
1  lifted  her  half  out  of  the  bed.  She  clasped 
her  frail  arms  round  me,  and  hid  her  face  in 
my  bosom. 

"  Oh,  I  love  yon  !"  she  said. 

Her  heart  gave  such  a  violent  plunge 
that  I  felt  it,  and  laid  her  back  quickly. 
Slie  waved  her  hand  to  me  with  a  deter 
mined  smile.  I  reached  the  door,  still  look 
ing  at  her,  crossed  the  dark  threshold,  and 
passed  out  of  the  house.  The  bold  sunshine 
smote  my  face,  and  the  insolent  wind  played 
about  me.  The  whole  earth  was  as  brilliant 
and  joyous  as  if  it  had  never  been  furrowed 
by  graves. 


Laura  lived  some  days  after  my  interview 
with  her.  She  sent  me  no  message,  and  I 
did  not  go  to  see  her.  From  the  garret 
windows  of  our  house,  which  was  half  a 
mile  distant  from  Laura's,  I  could  see  the 
windows  of  the  room  where  she  was  lying. 
Three  tall  poplar  -  trees  intervened  in  the 
landscape.  I  thought  they  stood  motion 
less  so  that  they  might  not  intercept  my 
view  while  I  watched  the  house  of  death. 
One  morning  I  saw  that  the  blinds  had 
been  thrown  back  and  the  windows  opened. 
I  knew  then  that  Laura  was  dead. 

The  day  after  the  funeral  I  gave  Frank 
his  letters,  his  miniature,  and  the  locket 
which  held  a  ring  of  his  hair. 

"  Is  there  a  fire  f"  he  asked,  when  I  gave 
them  to  him ;  "  I  want  to  burn  these 
things." 

I  went  to  another  room  with  him. 

"I'll  leave  everything  here  to-day,  and 
may  I  never  see  this  cursed  place  again! 
Did  she  die,  do  you  know,  because  1  held 
her  promise  that  she  would  bo  my  wife  f" 

He  threw  the  papers  into  the  grate,  and 
crowded  them  down  with  his  boot,  and 
watched  them  till  the  last  blackened  Hake 
disappeared.  Ho  then  took  from  his  neck  a 
hair  chain,  and  threw  that  into  the  fire  also. 


"It  is  all  done  now,"  he  said. 

He  shook  my  hand  with  a  firm  grasp  and 
left  me. 

A  mouth  later  Laura's  mother  sent  me  a 
package  containing  two  bundles  of  letters. 
It  startled  me  to  see  that  the  direction  was 
dated  before  she  was  taken  ill :  "  To  be 
given  to  Margaret  in  case  of  my  death. 
June  5th,  1848."  They  were  my  letters,  and 
those  which  she  had  received  from  Harry 
Lothrop.  On  this  envelope  was  written, 
"  Put  these  into  the  black  box  he  gave 
you."  The  gold  pen-holder  came  into  my 
hands  also.  Departure  was  engraved  on 
the  handle,  and  Laura's  initials  were  cut  in 
an  emerald  in  its  top.  The  black  box  was 
an  ebony,  gold-plated  toy,  which  Harry 
Lothrop  had  given  me  at  the  same  time 
Redmond  gave  Laura  the  pen-holder.  It 
was  when  they  went  away,  after  a  whole 
summer's  visit  in  our  little  town,  the  year 
before.  I  locked  the  letters  in  the  black 
box,  and, 

"Whether  from  reason  or  from  impulse  only," 

I  know  not,  but  I  was  prompted  to  write  a 
line  to  Harry  Lothrop. 

"  Do  not,"  I  said,  "  write  Laura  any  more 
letters.  Those  you  have  already  written  to 


her  are  in  my  keeping,  for  she  is  dead. 
Was  it  not  a  pleasant  summer  we  |>as>r.l 
together?  The  second  autumn  is  already 
nt  hand;  time  flies  the  same,  whether  we 
are  dull  or  gay.  For  all  this  period  what 
remains  except  the  poor  harvest  of  a  lew 
letters  ?" 

I  received  in  answer  an  incoherent  and 
agitated  letter.  What  was  the  matter  with 
Laura?  he  asked.  He  had  not  heard  from 
her  for  months.  Had  any  rupture  occurred 
between  her  and  her  friend  Frank  ?  Did  I 
suppose  she  was  ever  unhappy?  He  \\a> 
shocked  at  the  news,  and  said  he  must 
come  and  learn  the  particulars  of  the  event. 
He  thanked  me  for  my  note,  and  beg^t-d  me 
to  lii-lievo  how  sincere  was  his  friendship 
for  my  poor  friend. 

"Redmond,"  he  continued,  "is  for  the 
present  attached  to  the  engineer  corps  to 
which  I  belong,  and  he  has  offered  to  take 
charge  of  my  business  while  I  am  a  day  or 
two  absent.  He  is  in  my  room  at  this  mo 
ment,  holding  your  note  in  his  hand,  and 
appears  painfully  disturbed." 

It  was  now  a  little  past  the  time  of  year 
when  Redmond  and  Harry  Lothrop  had  left 
us — early  autumn.  After  their  departure 
Laura  and  I  had  been  sentimental  enough 


to  talk  over  the  events  of  their  visit.  Re 
calling  these  associations,  we  created  an 
illusion  of  pleasure  which  of  course  could 
not  last.  Harry  Lothrop  wrote  to  Laura, 
but  the  correspondence  declined  and  died. 
As  time  passed  on  we  talked  less  and  less  of 
our  visitors,  and  finally  ceased  to  speak  of 
them.  Neither  of  us  knew  or  suspected  the 
other  of  any  deep  or  lasting  feeling  towards 
the  two  friends.  Laura  kne\v  Redmond, 
better  th.au  I  did — at  least,  she  saw  him 
ofteuer;  in  fact,  she  knew  both  in  a  differ 
ent  way.  They  had  visited  her  alone, 
while  I  had  met  them  almost  entirely  iu 
society.  I  never  found  so  much  time  to 
spare  as  she  seemed  to  have,  for  everybody 
liked  her,  and  everybody  sought  her.  As 
often  as  we  had  talked  over  our  acquaint 
ance,  she  was  wary  of  speaking  of  Red 
mond.  Her  last  conversation  with  me  re 
vealed  her  thoughts,  and  awakened  feelings 
which  I  thought  I  had  buffeted  down.  The 
tone  of  Harry  Lothrop's  note  perplexed  me, 
and  I  found  myself  drifting  back  into  au  old 
state  of  mind  I  had  reason  to  dread. 

As  I  said,  the  autumn  had  come  round. 
Its  quiet  days,  its  sombre  nights,  filled  my 
soul  with  melancholy.  The  lonesome  moan 
of  the  sea  and  the  waiting  stillness  of  the 


10 


woods  were  just  the  same  a  year  ago  ;  but 
Laura  was  dead,  ami  Natnn;  grieved  me. 
Yet  none  of  us  are  in  one  mood  long,  and  at 
this  very  time  there  were  intervals  when  I 
found  something  delicious  in  life,  either  in 
myself  or  the  atmosphere. 

"Moreover,  something  is  or  seems 
That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams." 

A  golden  morning,  a  starry  night,  the  azure 
round  of  the  sky,  the  undulating  horizon  of 
sea,  the  hluo  haze  which  rose  and  fell  over 
the  distant  hills,  the  freshness  of  youth,  the 
power  of  boauty — all  gave  me  deep  volupt 
uous  dreams. 

I  can  afford  to  confess  that  I  possessed 
beauty ;  for  half  my  faults  and  miseries 
arose  from  the  fact  of  my  being  beautiful. 
I  was  not  vaiu,  but  as  conscious  of  my 
beauty  as  I  was  of  that  of  a  flower,  and 
sometimes  it  intoxicated  me.  For  iu  spi ti 
nt'  the  comforting  novels  of  the  Jane  Eyre 
school,  it  is  hardly  possible  to  set  an  undue 
value  upon  beauty;  it  defies  ennui. 

As  I  expected,  Harry  Lothrop  came  to  see 
me.  The  sad  remembrance  of  Laura's  death 
prevented  any  ceremony  between  us ;  we 
met  as  old  acquaintances,  of  course,  although 
we  had  never  conversed  together  half  an 


hour  without  interruption.  I  began  with 
the  theme  of  Laura's  illness  and  death,  aud 
the  relation  which  she  had  held  towards  me. 
All  at  once  I  discovered,  without  evidence, 
that  he  was  indifferent  to  what  I  was  say 
ing ;  but  I  talked  on  mechanically,  and  like 
a  phantasm  the  truth  came  to  my  mind. 
The  real  man  was  there— not  the  one  I  had 
carelessly  looked  at  aud  kuowii  through 
Laura. 

I  became  silent. 

He  twisted  his  fingers  in  the  fringe  of  my 
scarf,  which  had  fallen  off,  and  I  watched 
them. 

"Why,"  I  abruptly  asked,  "have  I  not 
known  you  before  ?" 

He  let  go  the  fringe,  and  folded  his  hands, 
and  in  a  dreamy  voice  replied, 

"  Redmond  admires  you." 

" What  a  pity !"  I  said.  "And  yon — you 
admire  me,  or  yourself,  just  now  ;  which  ?" 

Ho  flushed  slightly,  but  continued  with  a 
bland  voice,  which  irritated  and  interested 
me: 

"All  that  time  I  was  so  near  you,  and  you 
scarcely  saw  me ;  what  a  chance  I  had  to 
study  you !  Your  friend  was  intelligent  and 
sympathetic,  so  we  struck  a  league  of  friend 
ship  :  I  could  dare  so  much  with  her,  be- 


19 


cause  I  knew  that  she  was  engaged  to  marry 
Mr.  Ballard.  I  own  that  I  have  beeu  trou 
bled  about  her  since  I  went  away.  How 
odd  it  is  that  I  am  hero  alone  with  you  in 
this  room!  how  many  times  I  have  wished 
it!  I  liked  you  best  here;  and  while  absent 
the  remembrance  of  it  has  been  inseparable 
from  the  remembrance  of  you — a  picture 
within  a  picture.  I  know  all  that  the  room 
contains :  the  white  vases,  and  the  wire  bas 
kets,  with  pots  of  Egyptian  lilies  and  dam 
ask  roses,  the  books  bound  in  greeu  and 
gold,  the  engravings  of  nymphs  and  fauns, 
the  crimson  bars  in  the  carpet,  the  flowers 
on  the  cushions,  and,  best  of  all,  the  arched 
window  and  its  low  seat.  But  I  had  prom 
ised  myself  never  to  see  you ;  it  was  all  I 
could  do  for  Laura.  She  is  dead,  and  I  am 
here." 

I  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  and 
looked  out  on  the  misty  sea,  and  felt 
strangely. 

"Another  lover,1'  I  thought,  ''and  l»Vd- 
moud's  friend,  and  Laura's.  But  it  all  be 
longs  to  the  comedy  we  play." 

He  came  to  where  I  stood. 

"I  know  you  so  well,"  he  said — "your 
pride,  your  self-control,  even  your  foibles; 
but  they  attract  oue,  too.  You  did  not  es- 


cape  heart-whole  from  Bedmoud'a  iufluenco. 
Ho  is  not  married  yet,  but  be  will  be  ;  be  is 
a  chivalrous  fellow.  It  was  a  desperate 
matter  between  yon  two  —  a  band-to-band 
struggle.  It  is  over  with  you  both,  I  be 
lieve  :  yon  are  something  alike.  Now  may 
I  offer  you  my  friendship  ?  If  I  love  you, 
let  me  say  so.  Do  not  resist  me.  I  appeal 
to  tbe  spirit  of  coquetry  which  tempted  you 
before  you  saw  me  to-night.  You  are  dressed 
to  please  me." 

I  was  thinking  wbat  I  should  say  when 
he  skilfully  turned  the  conversation  into 
an  ordinary  channel.  He  shook  off  his 
dreamy  manner,  and  talked  with  his  old 
vivacity.  I  was  charmed  a  little;  an  asso 
ciation  added  to  the  charm,  I  fancy.  It  was 
late  at  night  when  he  took  his  leave.  He 
had  arranged  it  all ;  for  a  man  brought  his 
carriage  to  the  door  and  drove  him  to  the 
next  town,  where  he  had  procured  it  to 
come  over  from  the  railway. 

When  I  was  shut  in  my  room  for  the 
night  rage  took  possession  of  me.  I  tore 
off  my  dress,  twisted  my  hair  with  vehe 
mence,  and  hurried  to  bed  and  tried  to  go 
to  sleep ;  but  could  not,  of  course.  As  when 
we  press  onr  eyelids  together  for  meditation 
or  sleep,  violet  rings  and  changing  rays  of 


'  14 


light  flash  and  fade  before  the 
eyeballs,  so  in  the  dark  unrest  of  my  mind 
the  past  flashed  up,  and  this  is  what  I  saw  : 

The  county  ball,  where  Laura  and  I  first 
met  Redmond,  Harry  Lothrop,  and  Maurice. 
We  were  struggling  through  the  crowd  of 
girls  at  the  dressing-room  door,  to  rejoin 
Frank,  who  was  waiting  for  ns.  As  we 
passed  out,  satisfied  with  the  mutual  inspec 
tion  of  our  dresses  of  white  silk,  which  were 
trimmed  with  bunches  of  rose-geranium,  we 
saw  a  group  of  strangers  close  by  ns,  button 
ing  their  gloves,  looking  at  their  boots,  and 
comparing  looks.  Laura  pushed  her  fan 
against  my  arm;  wo  looked  at  each  other, 
and  made  signs  behind  Frank,  and  were 
caught  in  the  act,  not  only  by  him,  but  by 
a  tall  gentleman  in  the  group  which  she 
had  signalled  me  to  notice.  The  shadow  of 
a  smile  was  travelling  over  his  face  as  I 
caught  his  eye,  but  he  turned  away  so  sud 
denly  that  I  had  no  opportunity  for  embar 
rassment.  An  usher  gave  us  a  place  near 
the  band,  at  the  head  of  the  hall. 

"  Do  not  be  reckless,  Laura,"  I  said  —  "  at 
least,  till  the  music  gives  you  an  excuse." 

"  Yon  are  obliged  to  me,  yon  know,"  she 
answered,  "  for  directing  your  attention  to 


such  attractive  prey.  Being  in  bonds  my 
self,  I  can  only  use  my  eyes  for  yon;  don't 
be  ungrateful." 

The  band  struck  up  a  crashing  polka,  and 
she  and  Frank  whirled  away,  with  a  hun 
dred  others.  I  found  a  seat  and  amused  my 
self  by  contrasting  the  imperturbable  coun 
tenances  of  the  musicians  with  those  of  the 
dancers.  The  perfumes  the  women  wore 
floated  by  me.  These  odors,  the  rhythmic 
motion  of  the  dancers,  and  the  hard,  ener 
getic  music  exhilarated  me.  The  music 
ended,  and  the  crowd  began  to  buzz.  The 
loud,  inarticulate  speech  of  a  brilliant  crowd 
is  like  good  wine.  As  my  acquaintances 
gathered  about  me,  I  began  to  feel  its  elec 
tricity,  and  grew  blithe  and  vivacious.  Pres 
ently  I  saw  one  of  the  ushers  speaking  to 
Frank,  who  went  down  the  hall  with  him. 

"Oh,  my  prophetic  soul!"  said  Laura, 
"  they  are  coming." 

Frank  came  back  with  the  three  and  in 
troduced  them.  Redmond  asked  me  for  the 
first  quadrille,  and  Harry  Lothrop  engaged 
Laura.  Frank  said  to  me  behind  his  hand 
kerchief,  "It's  en  regie;  I  know  where  they 
came  from ;  their  fathers  are  brave,  and  their 
mothers  are  virtuous." 

The  quadrille  had  not  commenced,  so  I 


18 


talked  with  several  persons  near;  but  I  felt 
a  constraint,  for  I  knew  I  was  closely  ob 
served  by  the  stranger,  who  was  entirely 
quiet.  Curiosity  made  me  impatient  for 
the  dance  to  begin ;  and  when  we  took  our 
places  I  was  cool  enough  to  examine  him. 
Tall,  slender,  and  swarthy,  with  a  delicate 
moustache  over  a  pair  of  thin  scarlet  lips, 
penetrating  eyes,  and  a  tranquil  air.  My 
antipodes  in  looks,  for  I  was  short  and  fair; 
my  hair  was  straight  and  black  like  his,  but 
my  eyes  were  blue,  and  my  month  wide  and 
full. 

"What  an  unnaturally  pleasant  thing  a 
ball-room  is!"  he  said  —  "before  the  diist 
rises  and  the  lights  flare,  I  mean.  But  no 
body  ever  leaves  early;  as  the  freshness 
vanishes  the  extravagance  deepens.  Did 
you  ever  notice  how  much  faster  the  musi 
cians  play  as  it  grows  late  ?  When  we  open 
the  windows,  the  fresh  breath  of  the  night 
increases  the  delirium  within.  I  have  seen 
the  quietest  women  toss  their  failed  bou 
quets  out  of  the  windows  without  a  thought 
of  making  a  comparison  between  the  flowers 
and  themselves." 

••My  poor  geraniums!"  I  said  —  "what 
eloquence!" 

He  laughed,  and  answered, 


17 


"My  friend  Maurice  yonder  would  have 
said  it  twice  as  well." 

We  were  in  the  promenade  then,  and 
stopped  where  the  said  Maurice  was  fanning 
himself  against  the  wall. 

"  May  I  venture  to  ask  you  for  a  waltz, 
Miss  Deuliam?  it  is" the  next  dance  on  the 
card,"  said  Maurice;  "  but  of  course  you  are 
engaged." 

I  gave  him  my  card,  and  he  began  to 
mark  it,  when  Redmond  took  it,  and  placed 
his  own  initials  against  the  dance  after  sup 
per,  and  the  last  one  on  the  list.  He  left 
me  then,  and  I  saw  him  a  moment  after 
talking  with  Laura. 

We  passed  a  gay  night.  When  Laura  and 
I  equipped  for  our  ten  miles'  ride  it  was 
four  in  the  morning.  Redmond  helped 
Frank  to  pack  us  in  the  carriage,  and  we 
rewarded  him  with  a  knot  of  faded  leaves. 

"This  late  event,"  said  Laura,  with  a 
ministerial  air,  after  we  had  started,  "  was 
a  providential  one.  You,  my  dear  Frank, 
were  at  liberty  to  pursue  your  favorite  pas 
time  of  whist,  in  some  remote  apartment, 
without  being  conscience -torn  respecting 
me.  I  have  danced  very  well  without  you, 
thanks  to  the  strangers.  And  you,  Mar 
garet,  have  had  an  unusual  opportunity  of 


u 


displaying  your  latent  forces.  Three  such 
different  men !  But  let  ns  drive  fast.  lam 
in  want  of  the  cup  of  tea  which  mother  will 
have  waiting  for  me." 

We  arrived  first  at  my  door.  As  I  was 
going  up  the  steps  Laura  broke  the  silence, 
for  neither  of  us  had  spoken  since  her  re 
marks. 

"By-the-way,  they  are  coming  here  to 
stay  awhile.  They  are  anxious  for  some 
deep-sea  fishing.  They'll  have  it,  I  think.'' 

I  heard  Frank's  laugh  of  delight  at 
Laura's  wit  as  the  carriage  drove  off. 

It  was  our  last  ball  that  season. 

It  was  late  in  the  spring;  and  when  KYd- 
mond  came  with  his  two  friends  and.sct.tled 
at  the  hotel  in  our  town  it  was  early  sum 
mer.  When  I  saw  them  again  they  came 
with  Laura  and  Frank  to  pay  me  a  visit. 
Laura  was  already  acquainted  with  tlnni, 
and  asked  mo  if  I  did  not  perceive  her  su 
periority  in  the  fact. 

"Let  us  arrange,"  said  Harry  Lothrop, 
"some  systematic  plan  of  amusement  by  sea 
and  land.  I  have  a  pair  of  horses,  Maurice 
owns  a  guitar,  and  Redmond's  boat  will  be 
here  in  a  few  days.  Jones,  our  landlord, 
has  two  horses  that  are  tolerable  under  the 
saddle.  Let  us  ride,  sail,  and  be  serenaded. 


The  Lake  House,  Jones  again,  is  eight  miles 
distant.  This  is  Monday  ;  shall  \ve  go  there 
on  horseback  Wednesday  ?" 

Laura  looked  mournfully  at  Frank,  who 
replied  to  her  look, 

"  You  must  go ;  I^canuot ;  I  shall  go  back 
to  business  to-morrow." 

I  glanced  at  Redmond;  he  was  contem 
plating  a  portrait  of  myself  at  the  age  of 
fourteen. 

"Shall  we  go?"  Laura  asked  him. 

"  Nothing,  thank  you,"  he  answered. 

We.  all  laughed,  and  Harry  Lothrop  said, 

"  Redmond,  my  boy,  how  fond  you  are  of 
pictures !" 

Redmond,  with  an  unmoved  face,  said, 

"  Don't  be  absurd  about  my  absent-mind 
edness.  What  were  you  saying?"  And  he 
turned  to  me. 

"Do  you  like  our  plan,"  I  asked,  "of  go 
ing  to  the  Lake  House  ?  There  is  a  deep 
pond,  a  fine  wood,  a  bridge ;  perch,  pickerel, 
a  one-story  inn  with  a  veranda;  ham  and 
eggs,  stewed  quince,  elderberry  wine,  and 
a  romantic  road  to  ride  over." 

"I  like  it." 

Frank  opened  a  discussion  on  fishing ; 
Laura  and  I  withdrew,  and  weiit  to  the 
window-seat. 


J'l 


"  I  am  light-hearted,"  I  said. 

"It  is  my  duty  to  be  melancholy,"  she  re 
plied  ;  "  but  I  shall  not  niope  after  Frank 
has  gone." 

"  '  After  them  the  deluge,' "  said  I.  "  How 
long  will  they  stay  ?" 

"Till  they  are  bored,  I  fancy." 

"  Oh,  they  are  going ;  we  must  leave  our 
recess." 

Frank  and  she  remained ;  the  others  bid 
us  good-night. 

"I  shall  not  come  again  till  Christmas.'' 
he  said.  "These  college  chaps  will  amuse 
you  and  make  the  time  pass;  they  are 
young — quite  suitable  companions  for  you 
girls.  Tivc  Ja  bagatelle!" 

He  sighed,  and,  drawing  Laura's  arm  in 
his,  rose'to  go.  She  groaned  loudly,  and  lie 
nipped  her  ears. 

"Good-bye,  Margaret;  let  Laura  lake 
care  of  you.  There  is  a  deal  of  wisdom  in 
her." 

We  shook  hands,  Laura  moaning  all  the 
while,  and  they  went  home. 

Frank  and  Laura  had  boon  engaged  throe 
years.  He  was  about  thirty,  and  was  still 
too  poor  to  marry. 

Wednesday  pruvod  pleasant.  Wo  had  an 
early  dinner,  and  our  cavalcade  started  from 


•Jl 


Laura's.  I  rode  my  small  bay  horse  Folly, 
a  gift  from  my  abseutee  brother.  His  coat 
was  sleeker  than  satin  ;  his  ears  moved  per 
petually,  aud  his  wide  nostrils  were  always 
in  a  quiver.  He  was  not  entirely  safe,  for 
uow  aud  then  he  jumped  unexpectedly ;  but 
I  had  ridden  him  a  year  without  accident, 
and  felt  enough  acquainted  with  him  not  to 
be  afraid. 

Redmond  eyed  him. 

"  Yon  are  a  bold  rider,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  I  answered — "  a  careful  one.  Look 
at  the  bit,  aud  my  whip,  too.  I  cut  his  hiud- 
legs  when  he  jumps.  Observe  that  I  do  not 
wear  a  long  skirt.  I  can  slip  off  the  saddle, 
if  need  be,  without  danger." 

"That's  all  very  well;  but  his  eyes  are 
vicious;  he  will  serve  you  a  trick  some 
day." 

"  When  he  does,  I'll  sell  him  for  a  cart- 
liorse." 

Laura  and  Redmond  rode  Jones's  horses. 
Harry  Lothrop  was  mounted  on  his  horse 
Black,  a  superb,  thick-maned  creature,  with 
a  cluster  of  white  stars  on  one  of  his  shoul 
ders.  Maurice  rode  a  wall-eyed  pony.  Our 
friends  Dickeuson  and  Jack  Parker  drove 
two  young  ladies  in  a  carriage — all  the  sad 
dle-horses  our  town  could  boast  of  being  in 


use.  We  were  in  high  spirits,  and  rode  fast. 
I  was  occupied  iu  watching  Folly,  who  had 
not  been  out  for  several  days.  At  last,  tired 
of  tugging  at  his  mouth,  I  gave  him  rein, 
and  he  flew  along.  I  tucked  the  edge  of  my 
skirt  under  the  Saddle-flap,  slanted  forward, 
:ind  held  the  bridle  with  both  hands  cl.»r  it. 
his  head.  A  long  sandy  reach  of  road  I;iy 
before  me.  I  enjoyed  Folly's  fierce  trot 
ting;  but,  as  I  expected,  the  good  hurst- 
Black  was  on  my  track,  while  the  rest  of 
the  party  were  far  behind.  He  soon  over 
took  me.  Folly  snorted  when  In-  heard 
Black's  step.  We  pulled  up,  and  the  two 
horses  began  to  sidle,  and  prance,  and  throw 
np  their  heads  so  that  we  could  not  indulge 
iu  a  bit  of  conversation. 

"Brute!"  said  Harry  Lothrop,  "if  I  were 
sure  of  getting  on  again,  I  would  dismount 
and  thrash  you  awfully." 

"  Remember  Pickwick,"  I  said  ;  "  don't  do 
it." 

I  had  hardly  spoken  when  the  strap  «>t' 
his  cap  broke,  aud  it  fell  from  his  head  to 
the  ground.  I  laughed,  and  so  did  he. 

"I  can  hold  your  horse  while  you  dis 
mount  for  it." 

I  stopped  Folly,  and  he  forced  Black  near 
enough  for  mo  to  seize  the  rein  and  twist  it 


round  ray  hand ;  when  I  had  done  so  Folly 
turned  his  head,  and  was  tempted  to  take 
Black's  mane  in  his  teeth  ;  Black  felt  it, 
reared,  and  came  down  with  his  nose  in  my 
lap.  I  could  not  loose  my  hands,  which  con 
fused  me,  but  I  saw- Harry  Lothrop  making 
a  great  leap.  Both  horses  were  running  now, 
and  he  was  lying  across  the  saddle,  trying  to 
free  my  hand.  It  was  over  in  an  instant.  He 
got  his  seat,  and  the  horses  were  checked. 

"Good  God!"  he  said,  "your  lingers  are 
crushed." 

He  pulled  off  my  glove,  and  turned  pale 
when  he  saw  my  purple  hand. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  I  said. 

But  I  was  miserably  fatigued,  and  prayed 
that  the  Lake  House  might  come  in  sight. 
We  were  near  the  wood,  which  extended  to 
it,  and  I  was  wondering  if  we  should  ever 
reach  it,  when  he  said : 

ft  You  must  dismount,  and  rest  under  the 
first  tree.  We  will  wait  there  for  the  rest 
of  the  party  to  come  up." 

I  did  so.  Numerous  were  the  inquiries 
when  they  reached  us.  Laura,  when  she 
heard  the  story,  declared  she  now  believed 
in  Ellen  Pickering.  Eedmond  gave  me  a 
.searching  look,  and  asked  me  if  the  one- 
story  inn  had  good  beds. 


"I  can  take  a  nap,  if  necessary,"  I  an 
swered,  "in  one  of  Mrs.  Sampson's  i(\^\\- 
bottomed  chairs  on  the  veranda.  Tlit-  croak 
of  the  frogs  in  the  pond  and  the  buzz  of  tlio 
blue-bottles  shall  be  my  lullaby." 
-  "No  matter  how,  if  you  will  rest,"  he 
said,  and  assisted  me  to  remount. 

We  rode  quietly  together  the  rest  of  the 
way.  After  arriving,  we  girls  went  by  our 
selves  into  one  of  Mrs.  Sampson's  sloping 
chambers,  where  there  was  a  low  bedstead, 
and  a  thick  feather-bed  covered  with  a 
patch  work -quilt  of  the  "Job's  Trouble" 
pattern,  a  small,  dim  looking-glass  sur 
mounted  by  a  bunch  of  "sparrow -grass," 
and  an  unpaiuted  floor  ornamented  with 
home-made  rugs  which  were  embroidered 
with  pink  flower-pots  containing  worsted 
rose-bushes,  the  stalks,  leaves,  and  flowcr> 
all  in  bright  yellow.  We  hung  up  our  rid 
ing-skirts  on  ancient  wooden  pegs,  for  we 
had  worn  others  underneath  them  suitable 
for  walking,  and  then  tilted  tin-  wooden 
chairs  at  a  comfortable  angle  against  the 
wall,  put  our  feet  on  the  rounds,  and  felt  at 
peace  with  all  mankind. 

"  Alas !"  I  said,  "  it  is  too  early  forcurrant- 
pies." 

"  I    saw,"   said   one   of  the  girls,  "  Mrs. 


Sampson  poking  the  oven,  and  a  smell  of 
pies  was  in  the  air." 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  kitchen,"  exclaimed 
Laura. 

The  proposal  \vas  agreeable  ;  so  we  went, 
and  found  Mrs.  Sampson  making  plum- 
cake. 

"  The  pies  are  green  -  gooseberry  -  pies," 
whispered  Laura — •"  very  good,  too.'' 

"  Miss  Denhain,"  shrieked  Mrs.  Sampson, 
"yon  .haven't  done  growing  yet.  —  How's 
your  mother  and  your  grandmother? — Have 
you  had  a  revival  in  your  church  ? — I  heard 
of  the  young  men  down  to  Jones's — our  min 
ister's  wife  knows  their  fathers — first-rate 
men,  she  says. — I  thought  you  would  be 
here  with  them. — '  Sampson,'  I  said  this 
morning,  as  soon  as  I  dressed,  '  do  pick 
some  gooseberries.  I'll  have  before  sun 
down  twenty  pies  in  this  house.'  There 
they  are — six  gooseberry,  six  custard,  and, 
though  it's  late  for  them,  six  mince,  and  two 
awful  great  pigeon  pies.  It's  poor  trash,  I 
expect ;  I'm  afraid  you  can't  cat  it ;  but  it  is 
as  good  as  anybody's,  I  suppose." 

We  told  her  we  should  devour  it  all,  but 
must  first  catch  some  fish  ;  and  we  joined 
the  gentlemen  on  the  veranda.  A  boat  was 
ready  for  us.  Laura,  however,  refused  to  go 


M 


in  it.  It  was  too  small;  it  was  wet;  she 
wauted  to  walk  oil  the  bridge;  she  could 
watch  us  from  that;  she  wanted  some  flow 
ers,  too.  Like  many  who  are  not  afraid  of 
the  ocean,  she  held  ponds  and  lakes  in  ab 
horrence,  and  fear  kept  her  from  going  with 
us.  Harry  Lothrop  ottered  to  stay  with  IIIT, 
;iud  lake  lines  to  tish  from  the  bridge.  She 
assented,  and,  after  we  pushed  olF,  (hey 
strolled  away. 

The  lake  was  as  smooth  and  white  as  sil 
ver  beneath  the  afternoon  sun  and  a  wind 
less  sky  ;  it  was  bordered  with  a  mound  of 
greeu  bushes,  beyond  which  stretched  deep 
pine  woods.  There  was  no  shade,  and  we 
soon  grew  weary.  Jack  Parker  caught  all 
the  fish,  which  flopped  about  our  feet.  A 
little  way  down,  where  the  lake  narrowed, 
•we  saw  Laura  and  Harry  Lothrop  hanging 
over  the  bridge. 

"They  must  be  interested  in  conversa 
tion,"  I  thought;  "  he  has  not  lifted  his  line 
out  of  the  water  once." 

Krdmond,  too,  looked  over  that  way  often, 
and  at  last  said, 

"We  will  row  up  to  the  liridgo,  and  walk 
bcick  to  the  house,  il' \on.  .Mam  ice.  \vill  take 
the  boat  to  the  little  pier  again." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Maurice. 


We  came  to  the  bridge,  and  Laura  reached 
out  her  hand  to  me. 

"  Why,  dear,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  have 
burnt  yonr  face !  Why  did  you,"  turning  to 
Redmond,  "  paddle  about  so  long  in  the  hot 
sun  ?"  % 

Her  words  were  light  enough,  but  the  tone 
of  her  voice  was  savage.  Redmond  looked 
surprised  ;  he  waved  his  hand  deprecatingly, 
but  said  nothing.  We  weut  up  towards  the 
house, but  Laura  lingered  behind,  and  did  not 
come  in  till  we  were  ready  to  go  to  supper. 

It  was  past  sundown  when  we  rose  from 
the  ruins  of  Mrs.  Sampson's  pies.  We  voted 
not  to  start  for  home  till  the  evening  was 
advanced,  so  that  we  might  enjoy  the  gloom 
of  the  pine  wood.  We  sat  ou  the  veranda 
and  heard  the  sounds  of  approaching  night. 
The  atmosphere  was  like  powdered  gold. 
Swallows  fluttered  in  the  air,  delaying  to 
drop  into  their  nests,  and  chirped  their  even 
ing  song.  We  heard  the  plunge  of  the  lit 
tle  turtles  in  the  lake,  and  the  noisy  crows 
as  they  flew  home  over  the  distant  tree-tops. 
They  grew  dark,  and  the  sky  deepened  slow 
ly  into  a  soft  gray.  A  gentle  wind  arose, 
and  wafted  us  the  sighs  of  the  pines  and 
their  resinous  odors.  I  was  happy,  but  Lau 
ra  was  unaccountably  silent. 


"What  is  it,  Laura  f"  I  asked  in  a  whis 
per. 

'•  Nothing  Margaret ;  only  it  seems  to  me 
that  we  mortals  are  always  riding  orlishing. 
eating  or  drinking,  and  that  we  never  get  to 
living.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  the  pies  \\  t-n 
too  sour.  Come,  we  must  go,"  she  said  aloud. 

Redmond  himself  brought  Folly  from  the 
stable. 

"  We  will  ride  home  together,"  he  said. 
"My  calm  nag  will  suit  yours  bettor  than 
Black.  Why  does  your  hand  tremble?" 

He  saw  my  shaking  hands  as  I  took  the 
rein;  the  fact  was,  my  wrists  were  nearly 
broken. 

"  Nothing  shall  happen  to-night,  I  assure 
you,"  he  continued,  while  he  tightened  Fol 
ly's  girth. 

He  contrived  to  be  busy  till  all  the  party 
had  disappeared  down  a  turn  of  the  road. 
As  he  was  mounting  his  horse,  Mrs.  Sampson, 
who  was  on  the  steps,  whispered  to  me, 

"  He's  a  beautiful  young  man,  now  !" 

He  heard  her;  lie  had  the  ear  of  a  wild 
animal ;  ho  took  off  his  hat  to  Mrs.  Samp 
son,  and  we  rode  slowly  away. 

As  soon  as  we  were  in  the  wood  Redmond 
tied  the  bridles  of  the  horses  together  with 
his  handkerchief.  It  was  so  dark  that  my 


sight  could  not  separate  him  from  his  horse. 
They  moved  beside  me,  a  vague,  black  shape. 
The  horses'  feet  fell  without  noise  in  the  cool, 
moist  sand.  If  our  companions  were  near  us 
we  could  not  see  them,  and  we  did  not  hear 
them.  Horses  generally  keep  an  even  pace 
when  travelling  at  night — subdued  by  the 
darkness,  perhaps — and  Folly  went  along 
without  swaying  an  inch.  I  dropped  the 
rein  on  his  neck,  and  took  hold  of  the  pom 
mel.  My  hand  fell  on  Eedmond's.  Before  I 
could  take  it  away  he  had  clasped  it,  and 
touched  it  with  his  lips.  The  movement 
was  so  sudden  that  I  half  lost  my  balance, 
but  the  horses  stepped  evenly  together.  He 
threw  his  arm  round  me,  and  recoiled  from 
me  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow. 

"  Take  up  your  rein,"  he  said,  with  a 
strange  voice;  "quick!  we  must  ride  fast 
out  of  this." 

I  made  no  reply,  for  I  was  trying  to  untie 
the  handkerchief.  The  knot  was  too  firm. 

"  No,  no,"  ho  said,  when  he  perceived  what 
I  was  doing,  "let  it  be  so." 

"  Untie  it,  sir  !" 

"  I  will  not." 

I  put  my  face  down  between  the  horses' 
necks  and  bit  it  apart,  and  thrust  it  into  my 
bosom. 


"  Now,"  I  said,  "  shall  we  ride  fast  ?" 

He  shook  his  rein,  aud  \»e  rode  fiercely : 
past  our  party,  who  shouted  at  us;  through 
the  wood  ;  over  the  hrow  of  the  great  hill, 
from  whose  top  \ve  s;i\v  the  dark,  motionless 
sea;  through  the  long  street,  and  through 
my  father's  gateway  into  the  stable -yard, 
where  I  leaped  from  my  4iorse,  aud,  bridle 
iu  hand,  said  "  Good-night !"  in  a  loud  voice. 

Redmond  swung  his  hat  and  galloped  off. 

Early  next  morning  Laura  sent  me  a 
uote: 

"DEAR  MARGARET, — I  have  an  ague,  and 
mean  to  have  it  till  Sunday  night.  The  pines 
did  it.  Did  you  bring  home  any  needles  f  Oil 
Monday  mother  will  give  one  of  her  whist- 
parties.  I  shall  add  a  dozen  or  two  of  our 
set ;  you  will  come. 

"  P.  S.— What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Harry 
Lothrop  f  Good  young  man,  eh  f" 

1  was  glad  that  Laura  had  shut  herself  up 
for  a  few  days ;  I  dreaded  to  see  her  just 
now.  I  suffered  from  an  inexplicable  feeling 
of  pride  and  disappointment,  and  did  not 
care  to  have  her  discover  it.  Laura,  like 
myself,  sometimes  chose  to  protert  herself 
against  neighborly  invasions.  We  never 
Kept  our  doors  locked  in  the  country:  I  lie 


sending  in  of  a  card  was  an  unknown  pro 
cess  there.  Our  acquaintances  walked  in 
upon  us  whenever  the  whim  took  them,  and 
it  now  and  then  happened  to  be  an  incon 
venience  to  us  who  loved  an  occasional  fit 
of  solitude.  I  determined  to  keep  in-doors 
for  a  few  days  also.  Whenever  I  was  in  an 
unquiet  mood  I  took  to  industry;  so  that 
day  I  set  about  arranging  my  drawers,  mak 
ing  over  my  ribbons,  and  turning  my  room 
upside-down.  I  reining  all  my  pictures,  and 
moved  my  bottles  and  boxes.  Then  I  mend 
ed  my  stockings,  and  marked  my  clothes, 
which  was  not  a  necessary  piece  of  work,  as 
I  never  left  home.  I  next  attacked  the  par 
lor — washed  all  the  vases,  changed  the  places 
of  the  furniture,  and  distressed  my  mother 
very  much.  When  evening  came  I  brushed 
my  hair  a  good  deal,  and  looked  at  my  hands, 
and  went  to  bed  early.  I  could  not  read  then, 
though  I  often  took  books  from  the  shelves, 
and  I  would  not  think. 

Sunday  came  round.  The  church-bells 
made  me  lonesome.  I  looked  out  of  the 
window  many  times  that  day,  and,  fixing 
011  the  sash  one  of  my  father's  ship-glasses, 
swept  the  sea,  and  peered  at  the  islands  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Lay,  gazing  through 
their  openings,  beyond  which  I  could  see  the 


.great  dim  ocean.  Mother  came  botne  from 
church,  and  said  young  Maurice  was  there 
and  inquired  about  me.  He  hoped  I  did 
not  take  cold;  his  friend  Redmond  had  been 
hoarse  ever  since  our  ride,  and  had  passed 
most  of  the  time  in  his  own  room,  drumming 
on  the  window-pane  and  whistling  dirges. 
Mother  dropped  her  acute  eyes  on  me  while 
she  was  telling  mo  this;  but  I  yawned  all 
expression  from  my  face. 

As  Monday  night  drew  near  my  numbness 
of  feeling  began  to  pass  off;  thought  came 
into  my  brain  by  plunges.  Now  I  denied, 
now  I  hoped.  I  dressed  myself  in  black  silk, 
and  wore  a  cape  of  black  Chantilly  lace.  I 
made  my  hair  as  glossy  as  possible,  drew  it 
down  on  my  face,  and  put  round  my  head  a 
band  composed  of  minute  sticks  of  coral. 
When  all  was  done  I  took  the  candle  and 
held  it  above  my  head  and  surveyed  myself 
in  the  glass.  I  was  very  pale.  The  pupils 
of  my  eyes  were  dilated,  as  if  I  had  received 
some  impression  that  would  not  pass  away. 
My  lips  had  the  redness  of  youlli;  their 
color  was  deepened  by  my  paleness. 

"  Ho\v  handsome  I  am !"  I  thought,  as  1 
set  down  the  candle. 

\Vhen  I  entered  Laura's  parlor  she  came 
towards  me  and  said. 


"Artful  creature!  you  knew  well,  this 
warm  night,  that  every  girl  of  us  would 
wear  a  light  dress ;  so  you  wore  a  black 
one.  How  well  you  understand  sucli  mat 
ters  !  You  are  very  clever ;  your  real  sensi 
bility  adds  effect  to  jsour  cleverness.  I  see 
how  it  is.  Come  into  this  corner.  Have 
you  got  a  fan?  Good  gracious!  black,  with 
gold  spangles;  where  do  you  buy  your 
things  ?  I  can  tell  you  now,"  she  contin 
ued,  "  my  conversation  on  the  bridge  the 
other  day." 

She  hesitated,  and  asked  me  if  I  liked  her 
new  muslin.  She  did  look  well  in  it ;  it  was 
a  white  fabric,  with  red  rose-buds  scattered 
over  it.  Her  delicate  face  was  shadowed  by 
light,  brown  curls.  She  was  attractive,  and 
I  told  her  so,  and  she  began  again  : 

"  Harry  Lothrop  said,  as  he  was  impaling 
the  half  of  a  worm, 

"'Redmond  is  a  handsome  fellow,  is  he 
not?' 

"  'He is  too  awfully  thin,'  I  answered,  'but 
his  eyes  are  good.' 

"  He  gave  me  a  crafty  side-look,  like  that  of 
a  parrot  when  he  means  to  bite  your  finger. 

"  '  Your  friend,  too,'  he  added,  '  is  really 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  girls  I  ever  saw — 
a  coquette  with  a  heart.' 
3 


'"Let  down  your  line  into  the  water,'  I 
said. 

"  He  laughed  a-  little  langh.  By-the-bye, 
there  is  an  insidious  tenacity  about  Mr. 
Harry  Lothrop  which  irritates  me ;  but  I 
like  him,  for  I  think  he  understands  wom 
en.  I  feel  at  ease  with  him  when  ho  is  not 
throwing  out  his  tenacious  feelers.  Then  IIP 
said, 

"  '  Redmond  is  engaged  to  his  cousin.  The 
girl's  mother  had  the  charge  of  him  through 
his  boyhood.  He  is  ardently  attached  to  her 
— the  mother,  I  mean.  She  is  most  anxious 
to  call  Kedmond  her  son.' 

"  '  Didn't  you  have  a  bite  ?'  I  said. 

"'Well,  I  think  the  bait  is  off  the  hook,' 
he  answered;  and  then  we  were  silent  and 
pondered  the  water. 

"  There  are  some  people  I  must  speak  to," 
and  Laura  moved  away  without  looking  at 
me. 

I  opened  my  fan,  but  felt  chilly.  A  bustle 
near  mo  caused  me  to  raise  my  eyes;  Red 
mond  was  speaking  to  a  lady.  He  was  in 
black,  too,  and  very  pale.  He  turned  tow 
ards  me  and  our  eyes  met.  His  expression 
agitated  me  so  that  I  unconsciously  rose  to 
my  feet  and  warned  him  off  with  my  fan; 
Inn  lie  seemed  rooted  to  the  spot.  Laura 


took  care  of  us  both  ;  she  came  and  stood  be 
tween  ns.  I  saw  her  look  at  him  so  sweetly 
and  so  mournfully  that  he  understood  her 
in  a  moment.  He  shook  his  head  and  walked 
abruptly  into  another  room.  Laura  went 
again  from  me  without  giving  me  a  look. 
Maurice  came  up,  and  I  made  room  for  him 
beside  me.  We  talked  of  the  riding-party, 
and  then  of  our  first  meeting  at  the  ball. 
He  told  me  that  Redmond's  boat  had  arrived, 
and  what  a  famous  boat  it  was,  and  "  what 
jolly  sprees  we  fellows  had,  cruising  about 
with  her."  I  asked  him  about  his  guitar, 
and  when  we  might  hear  him  play.  He 
grow  more  chatty,  and  began  to  tell  me  about 
his  sister  when  Redmond  and  Harry  Loth- 
rop  came  over  to  us,  which  ended  his  chat. 

The  party  was  like  all  parties — dull  at  first, 
and  brighter  as  it  grew  late.  The  old  ladies 
played  whist  in  one  room,  and  the  younger 
part  of  the  company  were  in  another.  Cham 
pagne  was  not  a  prevalent  drink  in  our  vil 
lage,  but  it  happened  tbat  we  had  some  that 
night. 

"  It  may  be  a  sinful  beverage,"  said  an  old 
lady  near  me,  "  but  it  is  good." 

Redmond  opened  a  bottle  for  me,  we  clink 
ed  glasses,  and  drank  to  an  indefinite,  silent 
wish. 


M 


"One  more,"  he  asked,  "and  let  us  change 
glasses." 

Presently  a  cloud  of  delicate  warmth 
spread  over  my  brain,  and  gave  me  courage 
to  seek  and  meet  his  glance.  There  must 
have  been  an  expression  of  irresolution  in 
my  face,  for  he  looked  at  me  inquiringly, 
and  then  his  own  face  grew  very  s;i<l.  I 
felt  awkward  from  my  intuition  of  his  opin 
ion  of  my  mood,  when  he  relieved  me  by 
saying  something  about  Shelley,  a  copy  of 
whose  poems  lay  on  a  table  near.  From 
Shelley  he  went  to  his  boat,  and  said  he 
hoped  to  have  some  pleasant  excursions  with 
Laura  and  myself.  He  "  would  go  at  once 
and  talk  with  Laura's  mother  about  thorn.'' 
I  watched  him  through  the  door  while  he 
spoke  to  her.  She  was  in  a  low  chair,  and 
he  leaned  his  face  on  one  hand  close  to 
hers.  I  saw  that  his  natural  expression 
was  one  of  tranquillity  and  courage.  He 
was  not  more  than  twenty- two,  but  the 
firmness  of  the  lines  about  his  mouth  belied 
his  youth. 

"  He  has  a  wonderful  face,"  I  thought, 
"andjnst  as  wonderful  a  will." 

I  felt  my  own  will  rise  as  I  looked  at  him 
— a  will  that  should  make  me  mistress  of 
myself,  powerful  enough  to  contend  with 


and  resist  or  turn  to  advantage  any  con 
trolling  fate  which  might  come  near  me. 

"Do  you  feel  like  singing?"  Harry  Lo- 
throp  inquired.  "  Do  you  know  Byron's  song, 
'  One  struggle  more  and  I  am  free  '  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  I  replied ;  "  it  is  set  to  music 
which  suits  my  voice.  I  will  sing  it." 

Laura  had  been  playing  polkas  with  great 
spirit.  Since  the  champagne  the  old  ladies 
had  closed  their  games  of  whist  for  talking, 
and,  as  it  was  nearly  time  to  go,  the  company 
was  gay.  There  was  laughing  and  talking 
when  I  began,  but  silence  soon  after,  for  the 
wine  made  my  voice  husky  and  effective. 
I  sang  as  if  deeply  moved. 

"Lord,"  I  heard  Maurice  say  to  Laura  as 
I  rose  from  the  piano,  "what  a  girl!  She's 
really  tragic." 

I  caught  Harry  Lothrop's  eye  as  I  passed 
through  the  door  to  go  tip-stairs;  it  was  burn 
ing  ;  I  felt  as  if  a  hot  coal  had  dropped  on 
me.  Maurice  ran  into  the  hall  and  sprang 
upon  the  stair-railing  to  ask  me  if  he  might 
be  my  escort  home.  That  night  he  sere 
naded  me.  He  was  a  good-hearted,  cheerful 
creature  ;  conceited,  as  small  men  are  apt  to 
be — conceit  answering  for  size  with  them — 
but  pleasantly  so,  and  I  learned  to  like  him 
as  much  as  Redmond  did. 


sa 


The  summer  days  were  passing.  W<  had 
•ill  sorts  of  parties — parties  iii  houses  and  out- 
of-doors;  we  rode  and  sailed  and  walked. 
Laura  walked  and  talked  much  with  Harry 
Lothrop.  We  did  not  often  see  each  other 
alone,  but  when  we  met  were  more  serious 
and  affectionate  with  each  other.  Wo  did 
not  speak,  except  in  a  general  way,  of  Kcd- 
inond  and  Harry  Lothrop.  I  did  not  avoid 
Redmond,  nor  did  I  seek  him.  We  had  many 
a  serious  conversation  in  public,  as  well  us 
many  a  gay  one;  but  I  had  never  met  him 
alone  since  the  night  we  rode  through  the 
pines. 

He  went  away  for  a  fortnight.  On  the 
day  of  his  return  he  came  to  see  me.  He 
looked  so  glad  when  I  entered  the  room 
that  I  could  not  help  feeling  a  wild  thrill. 
I  went  up  to  him,  but  said  nothing.  He 
held  out  both  his  hands.  I  retreated.  An 
angry  feeling  rushed  into  my  heart. 

"  No,"  I  said.  "  Whose  hand  did  yon  hold 
hist  ?" 

He  turned  deadly  pale. 

"  That  of  the  woman  I  am  going  to 
marry,'' 

I  smiled  to  hide  the  trembling  of  my  lips, 
and  ollered  my  hand  to  him  ;  but  In-  icdr«l  it 
(iirai/.  and  fell  back  on  his  chair,  hurriedly 


39 


drawing  bis  handkerchief  across  his  face.  I 
saw  that  he  was  very  faint,  and  stood  against 
the  door,  waiting  for  him  to  recover. 

"  More  than  I  have  played  the  woman 
and  the  fool  before  you." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  thought  so.      You  seem  experienced." 

"  I  am." 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  gently;  "being 
only  a  man,  I  think  you  can.  Good  God," 
he  exclaimed,  "  what  an  infernal  self-posses 
sion  you  show !" 

"Redmond,  is  it  not  time  to  end  this? 
The  summer  has  been  a  long  one,  has  it 
not  ?  Long  enough  for  me  to  have  learned 
what  it  is  to  live.  Our  positions  are  re 
versed  since  we  have  become  acquainted.  I 
am  for  the  first  time  forgetting  self,  and  you 
for  the  first  time  remember  self.  Redmond, 
you  are  a  noble  man.  You  have  a  steadfast 
soul.  Do  not  be  shaken.  I  am  not  like  yon ; 
I  am  not  simple  or  single-hearted.  But  I 
imitate  you.  Now  come,  I  beg  you  will 
go." 

"  Certainly,  I  will.     I  have  little  to  say." 

August  had  nearly  gone  when  Maurice 
told  me  they  were  about  to  leave.  Laura 
said  we  must  prepare  for  retrospection  and 
the  fall  sewing. 


Ifl 


"  Well,"  I  said,  "  the  future  looks  gloomy, 
!ind  I  must  Lave  some  new  dresses." 

Maurice  came  to  see  me  one  morning  in  a 
stall-  of  excitement  to  say  we  were  all  going 
to  Bird  Island  to  spend  the  day,  dine  at  the 
light-house,  and  sail  home  by  moonlight. 
Fifteen  of  the  party  were  going  down  by  the 
sloop  Sapphire,  and  Redmond  had  begged 
him  to  ask  if  Laura  and  I  would  go  in.his 
boat. 

"Do  go,"  said  Maurice;  "it  will  be  our 
last  excursion  together ;  next  week  we  are 
off.  I  am  broken-hearted  about  it.  I  shall 
never  be  so  happy  again.  I  have  actually 
whimpered  once  or  twice.  Yon  should  hear 
Redmond  whistle  nowadays.  Harry  pulls 
his  moustache  and  laughs  his  oily  laughs,  but 
he  is  sorry  to  go,  and  kicks  his  clothes  about 
awfully.  By-the-way,  he  is  going  down  in 
the  sloop  because  Miss  Fairfax  is  going,  he 
says — that  tall  young  lady  with  crinkled 
hair ;  he  hates  her,  and  hopes  to  see  her 
sick.  May  I  come  for  you  in  the  morning, 
by  ten  o'clock?  Redmond  will  be  waiting 
ou  the  wharf." 

"  Tell  Redmond,"  I  answered,  "  that  T  will 
go;  and  will  you  ask  Harry  Lothrop  not  to 
engage  himself  for  all  the  reels  to  Miss  Fair- 
lax  r 


41 


He  promised  to  fulfil  my  message,  and 
went  off  in  high  spirits.  I  wondered,  as 
I  saw  him  going  down  the  walk,  why  it 
was  that  I  felt  so  much  more  natural  and 
friendly  with  him  than  with  either  of  his 
friends.  I  often  talked  confidentially  to  him  ; 
he  knew  how  I  loved  my  mother,  and  how  I 
admired  my  father,  and  I  told  him  all  about 
my  brother's  business.  He  also  knew  what 
I  liked  best  to  eat  and  to  wear.  In  return, 
he  confided  his  family  secrets  to  me.  I  knew 
his  tastes  and  wishes.  There  was  no  com 
mon  ground  where  I  met  Redmond  and 
Harry  «Lothrop.  There  were  too  many  topics 
between  Redmond  and  myself  to  be  avoided 
for  us  to  venture  upon  private  or  familiar 
conversation.  Harry  Lothrop  was  an  ac 
complished,  fastidious  man  of  the  world.  I 
dreaded  boring  him,  and  so  I  said  little.  He 
was  several  years  older  than  Redmond,  and 
possessed  more  knowledge  of  men,  women, 
and  books.  Redmond  had  no  acquirements, 
he  knew  enough  by  nature,  and  I  never  saw 
a  person  with  more  fascination  of  manner 
and  voice. 

The  evening  before  the  sailing-party  I 
had  a  melancholy-fit.  I  was  restless,  and 
after  dark  I  put  a  shawl  over  my  head  and 
went  out  to  walk.  I  went  up  a  lonesome 


road  beyond  our  house.  On  one  side  I  heard 
the  water  washing  against  the  shore  with 
regularity,  as  if  it  were  breathing.  On  the 
other  side  were  meadows,  where  there  were 
cows  crunching  the  grass.  A  mile  farther 
was  a  low  wood  of  oaks,  through  which  ran 
a  path.  I  determined  to  walk  through  that. 
The  darkness  and  sharp  breeze  which  blew 
against  me  from  limitless  space  made  me 
feel  as  if  I  were  the  only  human  creature  the 
elements  could  find  to  contend  with.  I  turn 
ed  down  the  little  path  into  the  deeper  dark 
ness  of  the  wood,  eat  down  on  a  heap  of 
dead  leaves,  and  began  to  cry. 

"  Mine  is  a  miserable  pride,"  was  my 
thought — "  that  of  arming  myself  with  beau 
ty  and  talent,  and  going  through  the  world 
conquering!  Girls  are  ignorant  till  they  are 
disappointed.  The  only  knowledge  men  prof 
fer  us  is  the  knowledge  of  the  heart ;  it  be 
comes  us  to  profit  by  it.  Redmond  will 
marry  that  girl.  He  must,  and  shall.  I  will 
empty  the  dust  and  ashes  of  my  heart  as 
soon  as  tho  fire  goes  down — that  is,  I  think 
KO;  but  I  know  that  I  do  not  know  myself. 
I  have  two  natures — one  that  acts,  and  one 
that  is  acted  upon  ;  and  I  cannot  always 
separate  the  one  from  the  other." 

Something  darkened  the  opening  into  the 


tt 


path.  Two  persons  passed  in  slowly.  I 
perceived  the  odor  of  violets,  and  felt  that 
one  of  them  must  be  Laura.  Waiting  till 
they  passed  beyond  me,  I  rose  and  went 
home. 

The  next  morning  was  cloudy,  and  the 
sea  was  rough  with  a  high  wind  ;  but  we 
were  old  sailors,  and  decided  to  go  on  our  ex 
cursion.  The  sloop  and  Redmond's  boat  left 
the  wharf  at  the  same  time.  We  expected  to 
be  several  hours  beating  down  to  Bird  Island, 
for  the  wind  was  ahead.  Laura  and  I,  muf 
fled  in  cloaks,  were  placed  on  the  thwarts 
aud  neglected ;  for  Redmond  and  Maurice 
were  busy  with  the  boat.  Laura  was  silent, 
and  looked  ill.  Redmond  sat  at  the  helm, 
and  kept  the  boat  up  to  the  Aviud,  which 
drove  the  hissing  spray  over  us.  The  sloop 
hugged  the  shore,  aud  did  not  feel  the  blast 
as  we  did.  I  slid  along  my  seat  to  be  near 
Redmond.  He  saw  me  coming,  and  put  out 
his  hand  and  drew  me  towards  him,  looking 
so  kindly  at  me  that  I  was  melted.  Trying 
to  get  at  my  handkerchief,  which  was  iu  my 
dress-pocket,  my  cloak  flew  open,  the  wind 
caught  it,  and,  as  I  rose  to  draw  it  closer,  I 
nearly  fell  overboard.  Redmoud  gave  a 
spring  to  catch  me,  and  the  boat  lost  her 
headway.  The  sail  flapped  with  a  loud  bang. 


11 


Maurice  swore,  and  we  chopped  about  in  the 
short  sea. 

"  It  is  your  destiny  to  have  a  scene  where- 
ever  you  are,"  said  Laura.  "  If  I  did  not  feel 
desperate  I  should  be  frightened.  But  these 
green  crawling  waves  are  so  opaque,  if  wo 
fall  in  we  shall  not  see  ourselves  drown." 

"  Courage !  the  boat  is  under  way,"  Mau 
rice  cried  out ;  "  we  are  nearly  there." 

And  rounding  a  little  point  we  saw  the 
light-house  at  last.  The  sloop  anchored  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  shore,  the  water 
being  shoal,  and  Redmond  took  off'  her  party 
by  instalments. 

"  What  the  deuse  was  the  matter  with  you 

at  one  time  T"  asked  Jack  Parker.    "  We  saw 

you  were  having  a  sort  of  convulsion.    Our 

cap'n  said  you  were  bold  chaps  to  be  trifling 

.  with  such  a  top-heavy  boat." 

"  Miss  Deuhain,"  said  Redmond, "  thought 
she  could  steer  the  boat  as  well  as  I  could, 
and  so  the  boat  lost  headway." 

Harry  Lnthrop  gave  Redmond  one  of  his 
soft  smiles,  and  a  vexed  look  passed  over 
Redmond's  face  when  he  saw  it. 

\Vr  had  to  scramble  over  a  low  range  of 
rocks  to  get  to  the  shore.  Redmond  anchor 
ed  his  boat  by  one  of  them.  Ilird  Island  was 
a  famous  place  for  parties.  It  was  a  mile  iu 


extent.  Not  a  creature  was  on  it  except  the 
light-bouse  keeper,  his  wife,  and  daughter. 
The  gulls  made  their  nests  in  its  rocky  bor 
ders  ;  tbeir  shrill  cries,  the  incessant  dashing 
of  the  waves  on  tbe  ledges,  and  tbe  creak 
ing  of  the  lantern»in  the  stone  tower  wore 
all  the  souuds  tbe  family  heard,  except 
wben  they  were  invaded  by  some  noisy 
party  like  ours.  They  were  glad  to  see  us. 
Tbe  ligbt-bouse  keeper  wyeut  into  the  world 
only  wben  it  was  necessary  to  buy  stores,  or 
when  his  wife  and  daughter  wanted  to  pay 
a  visit  to  the  mainland. 

The  bouse  was  of  stone,  one  story  bigb, 
with  thick  walls.  The  small,  deep-set  win 
dows  and  tbe  low  ceilings  gave  tbe  rooms 
the  air  of  a  prison  ;  but  there  was  also  an 
air  of  security  about  them  ;  for  in  looking 
from  the  narrow  windows  one  felt  that  the 
bouse  was  a  steadfast  ship  in  tbe  circle  of 
tbe  turbulent  sea,  whose  waves  from  every 
point  seemed  advancing  towards  it.  A  pale, 
coarse  grass  grew  in  tbe  sand  of  tbe  island. 
It  was  too  feeble  to  resist  the  acrid  breath 
of  tbe  ocean,  so  it  shuddered  perpetually, 
and  bent  landward,  as  if  invoking  tbe  pro 
tection  of  its  step-mother,  the  solid  earth. 

"  It  is  perfect,"  said  Redmond  to  me  ;  "  I 
have  been  looking  for  this  spot  all  my  life  ;  I 


am  ready  to  swear  that  I  will  never  leave 
it." 

Wo  were  sitting  in  a  window,  facing  each 
other  Ho  looked  out  towards  the  west,  and 
invsently  was  lost  in  thought.  He  folded 
his  arms  tightly  across  his  breast,  and  his 
eyes  were  a  hundred  miles  away.  The  sound 
of  a  fiddle  in  the  long  alley  which  led  from 
the  house  to  the  tower  broke  his  reverie. 

"  We  shall  be  uproarious  before  we  leave,'' 
I  said ;  "  we  always  are  when  we  come  here." 

The  fun  had  already  set  in.  Some  of  the 
girls  had  pinned  up  their  dresses  and  bor 
rowed  aprons  from  the  light-house  keeper's 
wife,  and  with  scorched  faces  were  helping 
her  to  make  chowder  and  fry  fish.  Others 
were  arranging  the  table,  assisted  by  the 
young  men,  who  put  the  dishes  in  the  wrong 
places.  Others  were  singing  in  the  best  room. 
One  or  two  had  brought  novels  along,  and 
were  reading  them  in  corners.  It  was  all 
merry  and  pleasant,  but  I  felt  quiet.  Ke<l- 
iiionil  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  scene. 
I  had  never  seen  him  so  gay.  He  chatted 
with  all  the  girls,  interfering  or  helping,  as 
the  case  might  be.  Maurice  brought  his  gui 
tar,  and  had  a  group  about  him  at  the  loot 
of  the  tower  stairs.  He  sang  loud,  but  his 
voice  seemed  to  fluctuate  —  iiow  it  rang 


through  the  tower,  now  it  was  half  over 
powered  by  the  roar  of  the  sea.  His  poeti 
cal  temperament  led  him  to  choose  songs  in 
harmony  with  the  place,  not  to  suit  the  com 
pany — melancholy  words  set  to  wild,  fitful 
chords,  which  rose -and  died  away  according 
to  the  skill  of  the  player.  I  had  gone  near 
him,  for  his  singing  had  attracted  me. 

"  Yon  are  inspired,"  I  said. 

He  nodded. 

"  You  never  sang  so  before." 

"  I  feel  old  to-day,"  he  answered,  and  he 
swept  his  hands  across  all  the  strings  ;  "  my 
ditties  are  done." 

After  dinner  Laura  asked  me  to  go  out 
with  her.  We  slipped  away  nnseen,  and 
went  to  the  beach,  and  seated  ourselves  on 
a  great  rock  whose  outer  side  was  lapped 
by  the  water.  The  sun  had  broken  through 
the  clouds,  but  shone  luridly,  giving  the  sea 
a  leaden  tint.  The  wind  was  going  down. 
We  had  not  been  there  long  when  Red 
mond  joined  us.  He  asked  us  to  go  round 
the  island  in  his  boat.  Laura  declined,  and 
sftid  she  would  sit  on  the  rock  while  we 
went,  if  I  chose  to  go.  I  did  choose  to  go, 
and  he  brought  the  boat  to  the  rock.  He 
hoisted  the  sail  half  up  the  mast,  and  we 
sailed  close  to  the  shore.  Jt  rose  gradually 


along  the  east  side  of  the  island,  and  ter 
minated  in  a  bold  ledge  which  curved  into 
the  sea.  We  ran  inside  the  curve,  where 
the  water  was  nearly  smooth.  Redmond  low 
ered  the  sail,  and  the  boat  drifted  towards 
the  ledge  slowly.  A  tongue  of  land,  cover 
ed  with  pale  sedge,  was  on  the  left  side. 
Above  the  ledge,  at  the  right,  we  could  see 
the  tower  of  the  light-house.  Redmond 
tied  down  the  helm,  and,  throwing  himself 
beside  me,  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand,  and 
looked  at  me  a  long  time  without  speaking. 
I  listened  to  the  water,  which  plashed  faint 
ly  against  the  bows.  He  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands.  I  looked  out  seaward  over 
the  tongue  of  land  ;  my  heart  quaked,  like 
the  grass  which  grew  upon  it.  At  last  lie 
rose,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  crying— the 
tears  rained  fast. 

"  My  soul  is  dying,"  he  said,  in  a  stifled 
voice;  "Iain  not  more  than  mortal — I  can 
not  endure  it." 

I  pointed  towards  the  open  sea,  which 
loomed  so  vague  in  the  distance. 

"The  future  is  like  that,  is  it  not T 
Courage  !  we  must  drift  through  it ;  we  shall 
find  something." 

He  stamped  his  foot  on  the  deck. 

"  Women  always  talk  so  ;  but  men  are  dif- 


ferent.  If  there  is  a  veil  before  us  we  must 
tear  it  away,  not  sit  muffled  iu  its  folds, 
and  speculate  on  what  is  behind  it.  JBise." 

I  obeyed  him.  He  held  iue  firmly.  We 
were  face  to  face. 

"  Look  at  ine." 

I  did.     His  eyes  were  blazing. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?" 

"No." 

He  placed  me  on  the  bench,  hoisted  the 
sail,  untied  the  helm,  and  we  were  soon 
ploughing  round  to  the  spot  where  we  had 
left  Laura ;  but  she  was  gone.  On  the  rock 
where  she  was  perched  a  solitary  gull,  which 
flew  away  with  a  scream  as  we  approached. 

That  day  was  the  last  that  I  saw  Red- 
mond  alone.  He  was  at  the  party  at  Lau 
ra's  house  which  took  place  the  night  before 
they  left.  We  did  not  bid  each  other  adieu. 

After  the  three  friends  had  gone,  they  sent 
us  gifts  of  remembrance.  Redmond's  keep 
sake  was  a  white  fan  with  forget-me-nots 
painted  on  it.  To  Laura  he  sent  the  pen 
holder  which  was  now  mine. 

We  missed  them,  and  should  have  felt 
their  loss  had  no  deep  feeling  been  involved ; 
for  they  gave  an  impetus  to  our  dull  conn- 
try  life,  and  the  whole  summer  had  been  one 
of  excitement  and  pleasure.  We  settled  by 


degrees  into  our  old  habits.  At  Christmas 
Frank  came.  He  looked  worried  and  older. 
He  bad  heard  something  of  Laura's  intimacy 
with  Harry  Lothrop,  and  was  troubled  about 
it,  I  know  ;  but  I  believe  Laura  was  silent 
ou  the  matter.  She  was  quirt  and  affec 
tionate  towards  him  during  his  visit,  and 
he  went  back  cousoled. 

The  winter  passed.  Spring  came  and  wont, 
and  we  were  deep  into  the  summer  when 
Laura  was  taken  ill.  She  had  had  a  little 
cough,  which  no  one  except  her  mother  no 
ticed.  Her  spirits  fell,  and  she  failed  fast. 
When  I  saw  her  last  she  had  been  ill  some 
weeks,  and  had  never  felt  strong  enough  to 
talk  as  much  as  she  did  in  that  interview. 
She  nerved  herself  to  make  the  effort,  and 
as  she  bade  me  farewell,  bade  farewell  to 
life  also.  And  now  it  was  all  over  with  her! 

I  fell  asleep  at  length,  and  woke  late.  It 
seemed  as  if  a  year  had  dropped  out  of  the 
procession  of  Time.  My  heart  was  still  beat 
ing  with  the  emotion  which  stirred  it  when 
Redmond  and  I  were  together  last.  Recol 
lection  had  stung  me  to  the  quick.  A  ter 
rible  longing  urged  me  to  go  and  find  him. 
The  feeling  1  had  when  we  were  in  the  boat, 
face  to  face,  thrilled  my  fibres  again.  I  saw 


his  gleaming  eyes;  I  could  have  rushed 
through  the  air  to  meet  him.  But,  alas!  ex 
altation  of  feeling  lasts  only  a  moment;  it 
drops  us  where  it  finds  us.  If  it  were  not 
so,  ho\v  easy  to  he  a  hero  !  The  dull  reac 
tion  of  the  present,,  like  a  slow  avalanche, 
crushed  and  ground  me  into  nothingness. 

"  Something  must  happen  at  last,"  I 
thought,  "  to  amuse  me,  and  make  time  eu- 
dnrahle." 

What  can  a  woman  do  when  she  knows 
that  an  epoch  of  feeling  is  rounded  off,  fin 
ished,  dead  ?  Go  hack  to  her  story-hooks, 
her  dress-making,  her  worsted-work  ?  Shall 
she  attempt  to  rise  to  mediocrity  on  the  pi 
ano  or  in  drawing,  distribute  tracts,  become 
secretary  of  a  Dorcas  society  ?  or  shall  sho 
turn  her  mind  to  the  matter  of  cultivating 
another  lover  at  once  ?  Few  of  us  women 
have  courage  enough  to  shoulder  out  the 
corpses  of  what  men  leave  in  our  hearts. 
We  keep  them  there,  and  conceal  the  ruins 
in  which  they  lie.  We  grow  cunning  and 
artful  in  our  tricks  the  longer  we  practise 
them.  But  how  we  palpitate  and  shrink  and 
shudder  when  we  are  alone  in  the  dark  ! 

After  Redmond  departed  I  had  locked 
np  my  feelings  and  thrown  the  key  away. 
The  death  of  Laura,  and  the  awakening  of 


n 


my  recollections,  caused  by  the  appearance 
of  Harry  Lothrop,  wrenched  the  door  open. 
Hitherto  I  had  acted  with  the  bravery  of  a 
girl ;  I  must  now  behave  with  the  resolution 
of  a  woman.  I  looked  into  my  heart  closely. 
No  skeleton  was  there,  but  the  image  of  a 
living  man — Redmond. 

11 1  love  him,"  I  confessed.  "  To  be  his 
•wife  and  the  mother  of  his  children  is  the 
only  lot  I  ever  care  to  choose.  He  is  noble, 
handsome,  and  loyal.  But  I  cannot  belong 
to  him,  nor  can  he  ever  be  mine. 

" '  Of  love  that  never  found  his  earthly  close 
What  sequel?' 

What  did  he  do  with  the  remembrance  of 
me  ?  Ho  scattered  it,  perhaps,  with  the  ash 
es  of  the  first  cigar  he  smoked  after  he  went 
from  me — made  a  mound  of  it,  maybe,  in 
honor  of  Duty.  I  am  as  ignorant  of  him  as 
if  he  no  longer  existed;  so  this  image  must 
be  torn  away.  I  will  not  burn  the  lamp  of 
life  before  it,  but  will  build  up  the  niche 
where  it  stands  into  a  solid  wall." 

The  ideal  happiness  of  love  is  so  sweet 
and  powerful  that,  for  a  while,  adverse  in 
fluences  only  exalt  the  imiigiiiatioii.  When 
Laura  told  me  of  Redmond's  engagement,  it 
did  but  change  my  dream  of  what  might  be 


into  what  might  have  been.  It  was  a  mir 
age  which  continued  while  he  was  present 
and  faded  with  his  departure.  Then  my 
heart  was  locked  in  the  depths  of  will  till 
circumstances  brought  it  a  power  of  revenge. 
I  think  now,  if  we  had  spoken  freely  and 
truly  to  each  other,  I  should  have  suffered 
less  when  I  saw  his  friend.  We  feel  better 
when  the  funeral  of  our  dearest  friend  is 
over  and  we  have  returned  to  the  house. 
There  is  to  be  no  more  preparation,  no  wait 
ing;  the  windows  may  be  opened,  and  the 
doors  set  wide ;  the  very  dreariness  and  des 
olation  force  our  attention  towards  the  liv 
ing. 

"  Something  will  come,"  I  thought ;  and  I 
determined  not  to  have  any  more  reveries. 
"  Mr.  Harry  Lothrop  is  a  pleasant  riddle ;  I 
shall  see  him  soon,  or  he  will  write." 

It  occurred  to  me  then  that  I  had  some 
letters  of  his  already  in  my  possession — 
those  he  had  written  to  Laura.  I  found  the 
ebony  box,  and,  taking  from  it  the  sealed 
package,  unfolded  the  letters  one  by  one, 
reading  them  according  to  their  dates. 
There  was  a  note  among  them  for  me  from 
Laura. 

"  When  you  read  these  letters,  Marga- 


M 


ret,"  it  said,  "yon  will  see  that  I  must 
have  studied  the  writer  of  them  in  vain. 
You  know  uow  that  he  made  me  unhappy  : 
not  that  I  was  in  love  with  him  much,  but 
he  stirred  depths  of  feeling  which  I  had  no 
knowledge  of,  and  which  between  Frank. 
my  betrothed  husband,  and  myself  had  no 
existence.  But  '  le  roi  s'amuae.'  Perhaps  ;i 
strong  passion  will  master  this  man  ;  but  I 
shall  never  know.  Will  you  f" 

I  laid  the  letters  back  in  their  place,  and 
felt  no  very  strong  desire  to  learn  any  thing 
more  of  the  writer.  I  did  not  know  then 
how  little  trouble  it  would  be — my  share  of 
making  the  acquaintance. 

It  was  not  many  weeks  before  Mr.  Lothrop 
came  again,  and  rather  ostentatiously.  ^> 
that  everybody  knew  of  his  visit  to  me. 
But  he  saw  none  of  the  friends  he  had 
made  during  his  stay  the  year  before.  I  hap 
pened  to  see  him  coming,  and  went  to  the 
door  to  meet  him.  Almost  his  first  words 
were: 

"  Maurice  is  dead.  He  went  to  Florida, 
took  the  fever,  which  killed  him,  of  course. 
He  died  only  a  week  after  —  after  Laura. 
Poor  fellow  !  did  he  interest  you  much?  I 
believe  he  was  in  love  with  you,  too;  but 


musical  people  are  never  desperate,  except 
when  they  play  a  false  note." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "I  was  fond  of  him. 
His  conceit  did  not  trouble  me,  and  he 
never  fatigued  me;  he  had -nothing  to  con 
ceal.  He  was  a -commonplace  man ;  one 
liked  him  when  with  him,  and  when  away 
one  had  no  thought  about  him." 

"  I  alone  am  left  you,"  said  my  visitor, 
putting  his  hat  on  a  chair,  and  slowly  pull 
ing  off  his  gloves,  linger  by  finger. 

He  had  slender,  white  hands,  like  a  wom 
an's,  and  they  were  always  in  motion.  After 
he  had  thrown  his  gloves  into  his  hat,  ho 
put  his  finger  agaiust  his  cheek,  leaned  his 
elbow  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  crossed  his 
legs,  and  looked  at  me  with  a  cunning  self- 
possession.  I  glanced  at  his  feet ;  they  were 
small  and  well -booted.  I  looked  into  his 
face ;  it  was  not  a  handsome  one,  but  ho 
had  magnetic  eyes  of  a  lightish  blue,  and  a 
clever,  loose  mouth.  It  is  impossible  to  de 
scribe  him  — just  as  impossible  as  it  is  for  a 
man  who  was  born  a  boor  to  attain  the 
bearing  of  a  gentleman  ;  any  attempt  at  it 
would  prove  a  bungling  matter  when  com 
pared  with  the  original.  He  felt  my  scru 
tiny,  and  knew,  too,  that  I  had  never  looked 
at  him  till  then. 


"  Do  you  sing  nowadays  ?"  he  asked,  tap 
ping  with  his  fingers  the  keys  of  the  piano 
behind  him. 

"  Psalms." 

"  They  suit  you  admirably  ;  but  I  perceive 
you  attend  to  your  dress  still.  How  effec 
tive  those  velvet  bands  are !  You  look  older 
ihau  you  did  two  years  ago." 

"Two  years  are  enough  to  age  a  wom 
an.1' 

"  Yes,  if  she  is  miserable.  Can  you  be 
unhappy  ?"  he  asked,  rising,  and  taking  a 
M-at  beside  me. 

There  was  a  tone  of  sympathy  in  his  voice 
which  made  me  shudder,  I  knew  not  why. 
It  was  neither  aversion  nor  liking  ;  but  I 
dreaded  to  be  thrown  into  any  tumult  of 
feeling.  I  realized  afterwards  more  fully 
that  it  is  next  to  impossible  for  a  passionate 
woman  to  receive  the  sincere  addresses  of 
:i  manly  man  without  feeling  some  fluctua 
tion  of  soul.  Ignorant  spectators  call  her  a 
coquette  for  this.  Happily,  there  are  teach 
ers  among  our  own  sex,  women  of  cold 
temperaments,  able  to  vindicate  themselves 
from  the  imputation.  They  spare  themselves 
great  waste  of  heart  and  some  generous 
emotion — also  remorse  and  self-accusations 
regarding  the  want  of  propriety  and  the 


57 


other  ingredients  which  go  to  make  up  a 
•white-muslin  heroine. 

Harry  Lothrop  saw  that  my  cheek  was 
burning,  and  made  a  movement  towards  me. 
I  tossed  my  head  back,  and  moved  down  the 
sofa ;  he  did  not  follow  me,  but  smiled  and 
mused  iu  his  old  way. 

And  so  it  went  on — not  once,  but  many 
times.  He  wrote  me  quiet,  persuasive,  elo 
quent  letters.  By  degrees  I  learned  his 
own  history  and  that  of  his  family,  his 
prospects  and  his  intentions.  He  was  rich. 
I  knew  well  what  position  I  should  have 
if  I  were  his  wife.  My  beauty  would  be 
splendidly  set.  I  was  well  enough  off,  but 
not  rich  enough  to  harmonize  all  things  ac 
cording  to  my  taste.  I  was  proud,  and  he 
was  refined;  if  we  were  married,  what  bet 
ter  promise  of  delicacy  could  be  given  than 
that  of  pride  in  a  woman,  refinement  iu  a 
man  ?  He  brought  me  flowers  or  books 
when  he  came.  The  flowers  were  not  deli 
cate  and  inodorous,  but  magnificent  and 
deep-scented;  and  the  material  of  the  books 
was  stalwart  and  vigorous.  I  read  his  fa 
vorite  authors  with  him.  He  was  the  first- 
person  who  ever  made  any  appeal  to  my  in 
tellect.  In  short,  he  was  educating  me  for 
a  purpose. 


Once  he  offered  me  a  diamond  cross.  I 
refused  it,  and  Le  never  asked  me  to  accept 
any  gift  again.  His  visits  were  not  fre 
quent,  and  they  were  short.  However  great 
the  distance  he  accomplished  to  reach  me, 
lie  stayed  only  an  evening,  and  then  re 
turned.  He  came  and  weut  at  uight.  In 
time  I  grew  to  look  upon  our  connection  as 
an  established  thing.  He  made  me  under 
stand  that  he  loved  me,  and  that  he  only 
waited  for  me  to  return  it ;  hut  he  did  not 
say  so. 

I  lived  an  idle  life,  inhaling  the  perfume 
of  the  flowers  he  gave  me,  devouring  old  lit 
erature,  the  taste  for  which  he  had  created. 
and  reading  and  answering  his  letters.  To 
he  sure,  other  duties  were  fulfilled.  I  was 
an  affectionate  child  to  my  parents,  and 
a  proper  acquaintance  for  my  friends.  I 
never  lost  any  sleep  now,  nor  was  I  troubled 
with  dreams.  I  lived  in  the  outward  :  all 
my  restless  activity,  that  constant  question 
ing  of  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  had  erased 
entirely.  Five  years  had  passed  since  I  first 
saw  Redmond.  I  was  now  twenty-four. 
The  Fates  grew  tired  of  the  monotony  of 
my  life,  I  suppose,  for  about  this  time  it 
changed. 

My  oldest  brother,  a  bachelor,   lived   in 


New  York.  He  asked  me  to  spend  the  win 
ter  with  him ;  he  lived  in  a  quiet  hotel,  had 
a  suite  of  rooms,  aud  conld  make  me  com 
fortable,  he  said.  He  had  just  asked  some 
body  to  marry  him,  aud  that  somebody 
wished  to  make  my  acquaiutauce.  I  was 
glad  to  go.  My  heart  gave  a  bouud  at  the 
prospect  of  change;  I  was  still  young  enough 
to  dream  of  the  impossible  when  any  chance 
offered  itself  to  my  imagination ;  so  I  ac 
cepted  my  brother's  invitation  with  some 
elation. 

I  had  been  in  New  York  a  month.  One 
day  I  was  out  with  my  future  sister  ou  a 
shopping  raid;  with  our  hands  full  of  little 
paper  parcels,  we  stopped  to  look  into  Gou- 
pil's  window.  Tbere  was  always  a  rim  of 
crowd  there,  so  I  paid  no  attention  to  the 
jostles  we  received.  We  were  looking  at  an 
engraving  of  Ary  Scheffer's  "  Francoise  do 
Rimini."  "  Not  the  worst  hell,"  muttered  a 
voice  behind  me  which  I  knew.  I  started, 
aud  pulled  Leonora's  -arm ;  she  turned  round, 
and  the  fringe  of  her  coat-sleeve  caught  a 
button  on  the  overcoat  of  one  of  the  gentle 
men  standing  together.  It  was  Redmond  ; 
the  other  was  his  "  ancient,"  Harry  Lothrop. 
Leonora  was  arrested ;  I  stood  still,  of  course. 
Redmond  had  not  seen  my  face,  for  I  turned 


it  from  him;  and  his  head  was  bent  down 
to  the  task  of  disengaging  his  button. 

"'Each  ouly  as  God  wills 

Can  work;  God's  puppets,  best  and  worst, 
Are  we ;  there  is  110  lust  nor  first,' " 

I  thought,  and  turned  ray  head.  He  in 
stinctively  took  off  his  hat,  and  then  planted 
it  back  on  his  head  firmly,  and  looked  over  to 
Harry  Lothrop,  to  whom  I  gave  my  hand. 
He  knew  me  before  I  saw  him,  I  am  con 
vinced  ;  but  his  dramatic  sense  kept  him  si- 
loiit — perhaps  a  deeper  feeling.  There  was 
an  expression  of  pain  in  his  face  which  im 
pelled  me  to  take  his  arm. 

"  Let  us  move  on,  Leonora,"  I  said ;  "  these 
are  some  summer  friends  of  mine,"  and  I 
introduced  them  to  her. 

My  chief  feeling  was  embarrassment, 
which  was  shared  by  all  the  party  ;  for  Leo 
nora  felt  that  there  was  something  unusual 
in  the  meeting.  The  door  of  the  hotel  seemed 
to  come  round  at  last,  and  as  we  were  going 
in,  Harry  Lothrop  asked  mo  if  he  might  see 
me  the  next  morning. 

"  Do  come,"  I  answered  aloud. 

We  all  bowed,  and  they  disappeared. 

"  What  an  elegant  Indian  your  tall  friend 
is!1'  said  Leonora. 


61 


"  Yes  ;  of  the  Comanche  tribe." 

"  But  he  would  look  better  hanging  from 
his  horse's  inane  than  he  does  in  a  long 
coat." 

"  He  is  spoiled  by  civilization  and  white 
parents.  But,  Leonora,  stay  and  dine  with 
me  in  my  own  room.  John  will  not  come  home 
till  it  is  time  for  the  opera.  You  know  we 
are  going.  You  must  make  me  splendid  ; 
you  can  torture  me  into  style,  I  know." 

She  consented,  provided  I  would  send  a 
note  to  her  mother,  explaining  that  it  was 
my  invitation,  and  not  her  old  John's,  as  she 
irreverently  called  him.  I  did  so,  and  she 
•was  delighted  to  stay. 

"  This  is  fast,"  she  said  ;  "  can't  we  have 
champagne  and  black  coffee  ?" 

She  fell  to  rummaging  John's  closets,  and 
brought  out  a  dusty,  Chinese-looking  affair, 
which  she  put  on  for  a  dressing-gown.  She 
found  some  Chinese  straw  shoes,  and  tucked 
her  little  feet  into  them,  and  then  braided 
her  hair  in  a  long  tail,  and  declared  she  was 
ready  for  dinner.  Her  gayety  was  refresh 
ing,  and  I  did  not  wonder  at  John's  admira 
tion.  My  spirits  rose,  too,  and  I  astonished 
Leonora  at  the  table  with  my  chat;  she  had 
never  seen  me  except  when  quiet.  I  fell 
into  one  of  those  unselfish,  uuaskiug  moods 


which  arc  the  glory  (if  youth:  I  felt  tha.t 
the  pure  heaven  of  love  was  in  the  depths 
of  my  being;  my  soul  shone  like  a  star  in  its 
atmosphere;  my  heart  throbbed,  and  I  cried 
softly  to  it,  "Live!  live!  ho  is  here!"  I 
still  chatted  with  Leonora  and  made  her 
laugh,  and  the  child  for  the  first  time  thor 
oughly  liked  me.  We  were  finishing  our 
dessert  when  we  heard  John's  knock.  We 
allowed  him  to  come  in  for  a  moment,  and 
gave  him  some  almonds,  which  he  leisurely 
(•racked  and  ate. 

"  Somehow,  Margaret,"  he  said,  "  you  re 
mind  me  of  those  women  who  enjoy  the  Ind 
ian  festival  of  the  funeral  pile.  I  have 
seei  "the  thing  done;  you  have  something  of 
the  sort  in  your  mind;  be  sure  to  immo 
late  yourself  handsomely.  Women  are  the 
dense." 

"  Finish  your  almonds,  John,"  I  said, "  and 
go  away  :  we  must  dress." 

He  put  his  hand  on  my  arm,  and  whis 
pered  : 

"  Smother  that  light  in  your  eyes,  my  girl ; 
it  is  dangerous.  And  you  have  lived  under 
your  mother's  eye  all  your  life!  You  see 
what  I  have  done"  —  indicating  Leonora 
with  his  eyebrows;  "taken  a  baby  on  iny 
hands." 


"  John,  John !"  I  inwardly  ejaculated, 
"  you  are  an  idiot." 

"  She  shall  never  suffer  what  you  suffer; 
she  shall  have  the  benefit  of  the  experience 
which  other  women  have  given  me." 

"  Very  likely,"  I  answered ;  I  know  we 
often  serve  you  as  pioneers  merely." 

He  gave  a  sad  nod,  and  I  closed  the  door 
upon  him. 

"Put  these  pins  into  my  hair,  Leonora,  and 
tell  me,  how  do  yon  like  my  new  dress  ?" 

"  Paris !"  she  cried. 

It  was  a  dove-colored  silk  with  a  black 
velvet  stripe  through  it.  I  showed  her  a 
shawl  which  John  had  given  me — a  pale 
yellow  gauzy  fabric  with  a  gold-thread  bor 
der — and  told  her  to  make  me  np.  She  pro 
duced  quite  a  marvellous  effect;  for  this 
baby  understood  the  art  of  dress  to  perfec 
tion.  She  made  my  hair  into  a  loose  mass, 
rolling  it  away  from  my  face;  yet  it  was 
firmly  fastened.  Then  she  shook  out  the 
shawl  and  wrapped  me  in  it,  so  that  my 
head  seemed  to  be  emerging  from  a  pale- 
tinted  cloud.  John  said  I  looked  outlandish, 
but  Leonora  thought  otherwise.  She  begged 
him  for  some  Indian  perfume,  and  he  found 
an  aromatic  powder,  which  he  sprinkled  in 
side  my  gloves  and  over  my  shawl. 


Wo  found  the  opera-house  crowded.  Our 
seats  were  near  the  stage.  John  sat  behind 
us,  so  that  he  might  slip  out  into  the  lob- 
by  occasionally ;  for  the  opera  was  a  bore 
to  Mm.  The  second  act  was  over ;  John 
had  left  his  seat ;  I  was  opening  and  shutting 
my  fan  mechanically,  half  lost  in  thought, 
when  Leonora,  who  had  been  looking  at  the 
house  with  her  lorgnette,  turned  and  >:ii<l  : 

"Is  not  that  your  friend  of  this  morning 
on  the  other  side,  in  the  second  row,  leaning 
against  the  third  pillar?  There  is  a  queen- 
ish-looking  old  lady  with  him.  He  hasn't 
spoken  to  her  for  a  long  time,  and  she  con 
tinually  looks  up  at  him." 

I  took  her  glass  and  discovered  Redmond. 
He  looked  back  at  me  through  another;  I 
made  a  slight  motion  with  my  handkerchief; 
he  dropped  his  glass  into  the  lap  of  the  lady 
next  him  and  darted  out,  and  in  a  moment 
he  was  behind  me  in  John's  seat. 

"Who  is  with  you?"  he  asked. 

"  Brother,"  I  answered. 

"You  intoxicate  me  with  some  strange 
perfume;  don't  fan  it  this  way." 

I  quietly  passed  the  fan  to  Leonora,  who 
now  looked  back  and  spoke  to  him.  He 
talked  with  her  a  moment,  aud  then  she  dis 
creetly  resumed  her  lorgnette. 


"  What  happened  for  two  years  after  I  left 
B.  ?  The  last  year  I  know  something  of." 

"Breakfast,  dinner,  and  tea,  the  ebb  and 
How  of  the  tide,  and  the  days  of  the  week." 

"  Nothing  more  ?"  Aud  his  voice  came 
nearer.  . 

"  A  few  trifles." 

"  They  are  under  lock  and  key,  I  sup 
pose  ?'' 

"  We  do  not  carry  relics  about  with  us." 

"  There  is  the  conductor ;  I  must  go. 
Turn  your  face  towards  me  more." 

I  obeyed  him,  and  our  eyes  met.  His 
searching  gaze  made  me  shiver. 

"I  have  been  married,"  he  said,  and  his 
eyes  were  unflinching,  "  and  my  wife  is 
dead." 

All  the  lights  went  down,  I  thought;  I 
struck  out  my  arm  to  find  Leonora,  Avho 
caught  it  and  pressed  it  down. 

"  I  must  get  out,"  I  said  ;  arid  I  walked 
up  the  alley  to  the  door  without  stumbling. 

I  knew  that  I  was  fainting  or  dying  ;  as 
I  had  never  fainted,  I  did  not  know  which. 
Redmond  carried  me  through  the  cloak-room 
and  put  me  on  a  sofa. 

"  I '  never  can  speak  to  him  again,"  I 
thought,  and  then  I  lost  sight  of  them  all. 

A  terribly  sharp  pain  through  my  heart 


ronsed  mo,  and  I  was  in  a  violent  chill. 
They  had  thrown  water  over  my  face;  my 
hair  was  matted,  and  the  water  was  drip 
ping  from  it  on  my  naked  shoulders.  The 
gloves  had  been  ripped  from  my  hands,  and 
Leonora  was  wringing  my  handkerchief. 

"  The  heat  made  you  faint,  dear,"  she 
said. 

John  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room 
with  a  phlegmatic  countenance,  but  he  was 
fuming. 

"  My  new  dress  is  ruined,  John,"  I  said. 

"  Hang  the  dress !  How  do  you  feel 
now  f" 

"  It  is  drowned  ;  and  I  feel  better.  Shall 
we  go  home  I" 

He  went  out  to  order  the  carriage,  and 
Leonora  whispered  to  me  that  she  had  for 
gotten  Redmond's  name. 

"No  matter,"  I  answered.  I  could  not 
have  spoken  it  then. 

When  John  came,  Leonora  beckoned  to 
Redmond  to  introduce  himself.  John  shook 
hands  with  him,  gave  him  an  intent  look, 
and  told  us  the  carriage  was  ready.  Red 
mond  followed  us,  and  took  leave  of  us  at 
the  carriage  door. 

Leonora  begged  me  to  stay  at  her  house  ; 
I  refused,  for  I  wished  to  be  alone.  John 


67 


deposited  her  with  her  mother,  and  we 
drove  home.  He  gave  me  one  of  his  infal 
lible  medicines,  and  told  me  not  to  get  tip 
in  the  morning.  But  when  morning  came 
I  remembered  Harry  Lothrop  was  coming, 
and  made  myself  feady  for  him.  As  human 
nature  is  not  qnite  perfect,  I  felt  unhappy 
about  liiin,  and  rather  fond  of  him,  and 
thought  he  possessed  some  admirable  qual 
ities.  I  never  could  read  the  old  poets  any 
more  without  a  pang,  unless  he  were  with 
me,  directing  my  eye  along  their  pages  with 
his  long  white  finger !  I  never  should  smell 
tuberoses  again  without  feeling  faint,  un 
less  they  were  his  gift ! 

By  the  time  he  came  I  was  in  a  state  of 
romantic  regret,  and  in  that  state  many  a 
woman  has  answered,  "  Yes !"  He  asked 
me  abruptly  if  I  thought  it  would  be  folly 
in  him  to  ask  me  to  marry  him.  The  ques 
tion  turned  the  tide. 

"No,"  I  answered,  "not  folly,  for  I  have 
thought  many  times  in  the  last  two  years 
that  I  should  marry  you  if  you  said  I  must. 
But  now  I  believe  that  it  is  not  best.  You 
have  pursued  me  patiently;  your  self-love 
made  the  conquest  of  me  a  necessary 
pleasure.  That  was  well  enough  for  me, 
for  you  made  me  feel  all  the  while  that,  if  I 


loved  you,  yon  were  worth  possessing.  And 
you  are.  I  liked  you.  But  my  feeliug  for 
you  did  not  prevent  my  fainting  away  at 
the  opera-house  last  night  when  Redmond 
told  me  that  his  wife  was  dead.'' 

"So,"  he  said,  "  the  long-smothered  fire 
has  broken  out  again  !  Chance  does  not 
befriend  me.  He  saw  you  last  night,  and 
yielded.  He  said  yesterday  he  should  not 
tell  you.  He  asked  me  about  you  after  we 
left  you,  and  wished  to  know  if  I  had  seen 
you  much  for  the  last  year.  I  offered  him 
your  last  letter  to  read — am  I  not  gener 
ous  ? — but  he  refused  it. 

"'When  I  see  her,'  he  asked,  'am.  I  at 
liberty  to  say  what  I  choose!' 

"On  that  I  could  have  said,  'No.'  Red 
mond  and  1  had  not  seeu  each  other  since 
the  period  of  my  iirst  visit  to  you.  He  has 
been  nursing  his  wife  in  the  meantime,  tak 
ing  journeys  with  her,  and  trying  all  sorts 
of  cures;  and  now  he  seems  tied  to  his  aunt 
and  mother-in-law.  He  was  merely  passing 
through  the  city  with  her,  and  this  morn 
ing  they  have  gone  again.  Well,"  after  a 
pause,  "  there  is  no  need  of  words  between 
us.  I  have  in  my  possession  a  part  of  you. 
Beautiful  women  are  like  flowers  which 
open  their  leaves  wide  enough  for  their  per- 


fume  to  attract  wandering  bees;  the  per 
fume  is  wasted,  though  the  honey  may  be 
hid." 

"Alas,  what  a  lesson  this  man  is  giving 
me!"  I  thought. 

"  Farewell,  th.en,"  he  said.  He  bit  his 
lips,  and  his  clinched  hands  trembled;  but 
he  mastered  his  emotion.  "  You  must  think 
of  me." 

"  Ami  see  you,  too,"  I  answered.  "Every 
thing  comes  round  again,  if  we  live  long 
enough.  Dramatic  unities  are  never  pre 
served  in  life ;  if  they  were,  how  poetical 
would  all  these  things  be  !  But  Time  whirls 
us  round,  showing  us  our  many-sided  feel 
ings  as  carelessly  as  a  child  rattles  the  bits 
of  glass  in  his  kaleidoscope." 

"So  be  it !"  he  replied.     "Adieu  !" 

That  afternoon  I  stayed  at  home,  and  put 
John's  room  in  order,  and  cleaned  the  dust 
from  his  Indian  idols,  and  was  extremely 
busy  till  he  came  in.  Then  I  kissed  his 
whiskers,  and  told  him  all  my  sins,  and 
cried  once  or  twice  during  my  confession. 
He  petted  me  a  good  deal,  and  made  me  eat 
twice  as  much  dinner  as  I  wanted  ;  he  said 
it  was  good  for  me,  and  I  obeyed  him,  for  I 
felt  uncommonly  meek  that  day. 

Soon    after,  Redmond    sent    me    a    long 


letter.  He  said  he  had  been,  from  a  boy, 
under  an  obligation  to  his  anut,  the  mother 
of  his  wife.  It  was  a  common  story,  and  he 
would  not  trouble  me  with  it.  He  was 
married  soon  after  Harry  Lothrop's  first  visit 
to  me,  at  the  time  they  had  received  the 
news  of  Laura's  death.  How  much  he  had 
thought  of  Laura  afterwards,  while  he  was 
watching  tlie  fading  away  of  his  pale  blos 
som  !  His  aunt  had  been  ill  since  the  death 
of  her  daughter,  restless,  and  discontented 
with  every  change.  He  hoped  she  was  now 
settled  among  some  old  friends  with  whom 
she  might  find  consolation.  In  conclusion, 
he  wrote :  "  My  aunt  noticed  our  hasty  exit 
from  the  opera-house  that  night,  when  I  was 
brute  enough  to  nearly  kill  you.  I  told  her 
that  I  loved  you.  She  now  feels,  after  a 
struggle,  that  she  must  let  me  go.  'Old 
women  have  no  rights,'  she  said  to  me  yes 
terday.  Margaret,  may  I  come,  and  never 
leave  you  again  T" 

My  answer  may  be  guessed,  for  one  day 
he  arrived.  It  was  the  dusk  of  a  cheery 
winter  day,  the  time  when  home  wears  so 
bright  a  look  to  those  who  seek  it.  It  was 
an  hour  before  dinner,  and  I  was  waiting 
for  John  to  come  in.  The  amber  evening 
sky  gleamed  before  the  windows,  and  the 


71 


fire  made  a  red  core  of  light  in  the  room. 
John's  sandal-wood  hoxes  gave  out  strange 
odors  in  the  heat,  and  the  pattern  of  the 
Persian  rug  was  just  visible.  A  servant 
came  to  the  door  with  a  card.  I  held  it  to 
the  grate,  and  the  fire  lit  up  his  name. 

"  Show  him  up-stairs,"  I  said. 

I  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  heard  his 
step  on  every  stair.  When  he  came  I  took 
him  by  the  hand,  and  drew  him  into  the 
room.  He  was  speechless. 

"  Oh,  Redmond,  I  love  you  !  How  long 
JTOU  were  away  !" 

He  knelt  by  me,  and  put  my  arms  around 
his  neck,  and  we  kissed  each  other  with  the 
first,  best  kiss  of  passion. 

John  came  in,  and  I  reached  out  my  hand 
to  him  and  said,  "This  is  my  husband." 

"That's  comfortable,"  he  answered. 
"  Won't  you  stay  to  dinner?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  Redmond  ;  "  this  is  my 
hotel." 

"I  see,"  said  John. 

But  after  dinner  they  had  a  long  talk  to 
gether.  John  sent  me  to  my  room,  and  I 
was  glad  to  go.  I  walked  up  and  down, 
crying,  I  must  say,  most  of  the  time,  asking 
forgiveness  of  myself  for  my  faults,  and  re 
membering  Laura  and  Maurice — and  then 


thinking  Redmond  was  mine  with  a  con 
traction  of  the  heart  which  threatened  to 
.-tiili-  me. 

John  took  us  up  to  Leonora's  that  even 
ing  ;  he  said  he  wanted  to  see  if  Puss  would 
be  tantalized  with  the  sight  of  such  a 
heautiful  romantic  couple  just  from  fairy 
land,  who  were  now  prepared  "to  live  in 
peace." 

We  were  married  the  next  day  in  a  church 
in  a  by-street.  John  was  the  only  witness, 
and  flourished  a  largo  silk  handkerchief  so 
that  it  had  the  effect  of  a  triumphal  banner. 
Redmond  put  the  ring  on  the  wrong  finger 
— a  mistake  which  the  minister  kindly 
rectified.  All  I  had  now  for  the  occasion 
was  a  pair  of  gloves. 

One  morning  after  my  marriage,  when 
Redmond  and  John  were  smoking  together, 
I  was  turning  over  some  boxes,  for  I  was 
packing  to  go  homo  on  a  visit  to  our  mother. 
I  called  Redmond  to  leave  his  pipe  and 
come  to  me. 

"  Yon  have  not  seen  any  of  my  property. 
Look,  here  it  is: 

"One  bitten  handkerchief. 

"  A  fan  never  used. 

"  A  gold  pen-holder. 

"A  draggled  shawl.'' 


T.i 


"  Margaret,"  bo  said,  taking  my  chin  in 
his  hand  and  bringing  his  eyes  close  to 
mine,  "I  am  wild  with  happiness." 

"  Your  pipe  has  gone  out,"  we  heard  John 
say. 


IN  HONOR  BOUND. 

BY  MISS  CAROLINE  CHESEBRO. 

THE  little  hamlot  called  Juniper,  lying  at 
the  foot  of  the  Granite  Hills,  had  contribu 
ted  men  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  State 
and  country — twenty  ministers  to  the  pul 
pit,  a  judge  to  the  Court  of  Appeals,  a  gov 
ernor  and  a  bishop  to  the  Northwestern  ter 
ritory.  Poor  in  crops,  it  had  been  rich  in 
men.  The  traditions  of  the  region — for 
Juniper  was  yet  more  a  region  thaii  a  place 
— were  remarkable. 

At  length,  however,  came  a  time  when 
rising  generations  exhibited  all  the  signs  of 
contented  resting  on  the  laurels  won,  when 
energy  exhibited  itself  in  amassing  wealth 
and  in  seeking  for  enjoyment.  Farms  and 
stocks  looked  up  as  men  looked  down.  There 
was  very  little  study  done  by  firelight  after 
a  long  day  of  labor  in  the  field.  The  people 
of  Juniper  had  not  yet  ceased  to  worship  at 
the  shrines  of  their  ancestors,  but  the  pride 


75 


kindled  by  tradition  seemed  to  Lave  lost  the 
element  of  emulation.  There  was  no  more 
of  it.  Soul  took  its  ease  in  Juniper;  the 
sacred  fire  went  out. 

In  these  days  of  decline  Matthew  Reardon 
was  born,  of  a  liue  which  had  neither  part 
nor  lot  in  this  heritage  of  Juniper  glory. 
His  father  was  not  a  landed  proprietor  of 
even  the  humblest  pretensions,  but  a  black 
smith,  who,  after  roving  about  with  his 
family  of  five  children  from  one  place  to  an 
other,  finally  settled  at  Juniper,  and  there 
remained,  because  there  he  was  attacked  by 
a  disease  which  put  an  end  to  his  wander 
ings.  He  did  not  die,  but  became  palsied 
and  purblind  ,  and  henceforth  his  boys  and 
his  old  woman  must  get  on  as  best  they 
could. 

They  exhibited  themselves  in  ways  com 
mon  to  people  among  whom  nature  is  strong. 
They  quarrelled  over  work,  food,  clothing, 
fire;  and  the  weakest  of  the  five — they  were 
all  boys — bade  fair  to  be  worst  off.  His 
mother,  perceiving  the  fact,  took  the  child 
under  her  special  protection,  and  thus  taught 
him  the  great  lesson  that  whatever  is  desir 
able  in  this  world  may  be  obtained  easily  if 
one  have  but  the  wisdom  to  keep  still  and 
use  opportunity. 


7.; 


If  you  ask  whether  a  better  character  bado 
fair  to  be  formed  in  Matthew  by  this  train 
ing,  arid  the  tact  which  was  thus  developed 
in  him,  than  was  fashioned  in  Abel,  the  eld 
est,  by  his  almost  desperate  use  of  the  weap 
ons  with  which  he  had  supplied  himself 
when  he  found  that  he  must  take  the  place 
of  leader  in  his  father's  house,  I  am  afraid 
you  must  wait  some  time  for  an  answer. 

But  without  doubt  Matthew  did  make  a- 
more  agreeable  exhibition  of  himself.  He 
seemed  to  be  gentle,  but  perhaps  was  only 
calculating ;  ho  appeared  to  be  generous, 
possibly  was  merely  timid.  Abner  Reardou 
was  the  fourth  son  ;  Matthew  was  the  sec 
ond;  Michael,  the  third,  had  gone  to  seek 
his  fortune  nobody  knew  where  ;  Luke  was 
dead  since  infancy ;  and  Abel  was  the  eldest. 

Abner  was  the  only  one  of  the  brothers 
who  seemed  to  know  anything  about  Mat 
thew,  and  ho  was  ten  years  Matthew's  jurf- 
ior,  and  but  seven  when  that  wonder  of  the 
household  died.  So  it  happened  quite  easily 
that  his  imagination,  fastening  upon  the 
dead,  made  of  him  something  between  hu 
man  and  divine  which  by  no  possibility 
could  have  found  lodgment  within  Keardou 
llesh  and  blood — at  least,  not  at  that  period 
of  the  Kcardon  history. 


77 


Destitute  of  family  record  or  tradition, 
blessed  merely  with  a  Saxon  common-sense 
•which  controlled  well  a  Celtic  imagination, 
it  is  difficult  to  understand — is  it  ? — his 
belief  that,  had  Matthew  lived,  the  world 
must  have  had  another  notable  man  out  of 
Juniper. 

Abner's  destiny  was  not  an  unhappy  one. 
He  was  born  to  star  -  worship  —  to  a  devo 
tional  impulse  towards  the  station  his  broth 
er  had  aimed  at.  With  the  spirit  of  an 
tagonism  strongly  developed  in  him,  and 
the  disposition  to  appropriate  Avhatever  he 
wanted,  wherever  he  found  it,  and  to  ques 
tion  and  decide  rights  on  the  unquestion 
able  power  of  the  strongest,  taking  up  the 
tradition  of  his  brother,  he  felt  within  him 
the  proud  purpose  that  would  give  back  to 
his  mother  what  she  had  really  never  lost — 
comfort  a  grief  which,  in  the  degree  he  con 
ceived  of,  she  had  never  borne.  See  how 
this  fiction  of  an  imaginary  hero  in  the  house 
worked  on  the  life  of  this  lad,  and  speak 
reverently  of  imagination,  the  grandest  of 
gifts  to  mortals. 

Abner  believed  tliat  Matthew,  who  was 
gentle,  had  also  been  brave,  and  bravely  set 
to  work  to  acquire  a,  like  gentleness.  He 
imagined  that  the  born  plodder  was  patient 


78 


in  the  way  that  lie  must  be  patient  would  ho 
win  what  Mat  would  certainly  have  won, 
and  steadily  ho  sought  to  discipline  his 
rough  and  fiery  wilfulness  into  order. 

As  he  grew  older  he  saw  in  his  mother  a 
suffering  woman  who  had  lost  a  son  by 
whom,  in  the  midst  of  savage  natures,  she 
had  been  tenderly  loved  and  served,  a  son 
who  had  been  to  her  as  a  daughter,  and  into 
his  heart  trickled  drops  from  a  divine  fount 
ain  that  made  it  a  well  of  brightness. 

You  are  in  the  secret  of  Abuer  Keardon's 
growth.  You  know  how  he  conquered  his 
dislike  for  anything  like  study;  how  he 
struggled  to  win  his  own  approbation  ;  how 
he  stood  as  a  slayer  of  dragons  in  the  den 
where  he  was  bom.  By  no  miracle  was  it 
that  a  sou  like  Abner  loomed  up  among  the 
Reardous.  For  the  reason  that  he  was  noth 
ing  that  could  have  been  lorn  of  them,  nei 
ther  the  blacksmith  nor  his  wife  understood 
the  lad;  and  in  time,  as  his  eyes  opened 
wider,  and  his  brain  more  clearly  perceived, 
must  it  not  become  as  evident  to  himself  as 
to  others,  and  more  intelligible  to  himself 
than  to  them,  that  between  them  lay  a  gulf 
as  deep  as  time,  a  wall  as  high  as  heaven  f 

Years  passed  on,  and  Abel,  of  coarse,  mar 
ried  ;  and  as  he  had  already  a  family  to  a 


great  degree  dependent  on  him  in  his  fa 
ther's  bouse,  bo  brought  bis  wife  to  it,  and 
after  tbat,  tbough  there  were  slight  changes, 
and  perhaps  a  little  gain  in  cheerfulness, 
things  did  not,  on  the  vvbole,  go  on  much 
better  with  the  Jieardous  than  they  bad 
from  the  beginning. 

A  young  bride,  my  young  lady,  who  brings 
no  fortune  into  the  home  of  a  poor  man, 
and,  alas!  not  even  health,  must  she  not 
have  inexhaustible  good  nature,  faith  un 
limited,  and  unquenchable  cheerfulness  to 
secure  for  herself  an  immovable  place  in  the 
household  affections  ?  Poor  Ruth  seemed  to 
have  all  that  could  be  required,  for  she  soon 
became  the  centre  of  the  house,  and  the 
bouse  was  transformed  into  a  home. 

Yet  it  seemed  strange  to  all  the  neighbors 
when  Ruth  Colt  went  over  to  the  Reardous'. 
What  could  hare  induced  her  to  exchange 
her  father's  for  the  blacksmith's  house  ? 
Perhaps  Abel's  bluff  kind  of  man  fulness 
seemed  to  a  delicate  girl,  who  had  grown  up 
in  a  family  of  girls,  full  of  protecting  power. 
Whatever  she  expected,  whatever  she  found, 
it  began  to  appear  that  Ruth  had  married 
Abel  and  come  into  the  house  chiefly  that 
she  might  instruct  Abner  how  he  might  find 
bis  wav  out.  of  it. 


The  twenty  ministers,  the  bishop,  and  tlio 
judge  had  each  and  all  passed  to  their  high 
position  through  college  doors,  with  mid 
night  lamps  and  text-books  in  their  hands, 
and  Abner  had  thought  of  no  other  way  of 
egress,  and  had  begun  to  look  with  doubt 
ing  gaze  towards  the  future.  But  Abel's  wife 
came,  and  made  a  life-long  friend  of  him  by 
her  more  than  wonderous  fairy  tale  about 
her  uncle  in  New  York,  who  had  begun  lift) 
as  a  saddler,  and  was  ending  it  a  millionaire. 
Perhaps  the  blacksmith's  trade  might  prove 
as  good  a  beginning,  but  the  saddler  had 
not  got  on  without  learning  of  some  sort. 
Yes,  and  had  taught  school  before  he  set 
himself  up  in  business!  There  it  all  was  iu 
a  nutshell.  The  time  Abuer  had  given  to 
study  had  not  been  lost— the  more  time  ho 
continued  to  give  to  it  the  better — but  en 
terprise  also  must  have  Lts  opportunity. 
Abner  boldly  took  the  money  he  had  been 
saving  for  college  expenses — money  lie  had 
earned  by  performing  sextou  duty  in  a 
church  five  miles  away — and,  selling  the  ap 
ples  which  he  had  dried  to  a  peddler  for 
three  cents  a  pound,  he  bought  tobacco, 
pipes,  cigars,  yeast  -  cakes,  matches,  soap, 
and  other  like  light  wares,  aud  these  ho 
exposed  for  sale  on  neat  shelves  which  he 


put  np  back  of  a  counter  in  the  little  shed 
adjoining  Abel's  shop.  Many  a  child  has 
"played  store"  on  the  outlay  of  a  larger 
capital  than  was  expended  by  the  experi 
ment  Abner  so  seriously  made.  Abel  laughed 
at  "the  boy;"  but  there  was  his  o\vu  Ruth's 
story  about  her  uncle,  and  the  Colts  had 
rich  relations.  Everybody  knew  it.  Abel 
could  not  put  the  testimony  of  their  expe 
riences  out  of  sight. 

From  time  to  time,  as  inquiries  were  made 
at  the  blacksmith's  shop  for  articles  of  do 
mestic  use,  the  stock  on  Abner's  shelves  be 
came  larger  and  more  varied,  and  among 
the  goods  were  displayed,  probably  by  way 
of  ornament,  specimens  of  quartz  and  of 
minerals,  which  Abner's  observing  eyes  had 
discovered  on  his  Sunday  walks  to  and  from 
the  church  where  he  officiated  in  his  hum 
ble  capacity. 

But  Abner  was  growing  older  with  the 
months  which  saw  these  changes.  It  took 
some  time  to  bring  about  the  necessity  of 
enlarged  stock,  a  longer  time  to  collect  the 
specimens  and  bring  them  together.  Still 
he  never  forgot  Matthew,  and  between  the 
books  he  brought  from  Juniper  Centre  Li 
brary  and  the  shoeing  of  horses  and  the 
selling  of  wares  he  had  sufficient  occnpa- 
c 


tion.  When  would  the  tide  rise,  though,  so 
as  to  surge  through  the  inlet,  and  set  the 
smooth  water  his  bark  was  moored  in  in 
motion. 

Sometimes  Ruth's  younger  sister,  Abby, 
came  to  visit  them.  She  was  a  lively  girl, 
who  had  taught  school  since  she  was  twelve 
years  old — a  loving  girl,  who  took  no  over 
burdening  thought  of  the  morrow,  and  was 
as  satisfied  with  the  pleasure  of  a  day  as  if 
the  promise  of  eternal  duration  were  in  it. 

People  at  the  Outre  began  to  say  that  it 
would  be  a  pity  if  another  of  the  Colt  girls 
should  be  so  easily  satisfied  as  to  "  take  "  a 
Reardon,but  for  all  that  it  was  by  no  means 
a  rare  sight  on  a  Sunday  morning  to  see  the 
two  walking  together  on  the  high-road  tow 
ards  the  meeting- house.  And,  indeed,  it 
seemed  quite  unlikely  that  they  would  make 
any  other  disposition  of  themselves  than 
just  this  which  the  gossips  suggested  with 
thr  doubting  of  sceptics. 

One  day  there  came  a  letter  from  the  I'm 
West  to  the  Colt  family,  and  after  it  had 
been  duly  read  and  discussed  by  the  house 
hold,  Abby  put  it  into  her  pocket  and  walked 
over  to  Abel's,  carrying  a  thought  with  her 
which  she  hardly  dared  to  measure  in  its 
lenjitli  and  breadth. 


Abner  ought  to  know  about  the  prairies 
and  the  cattle,  siiid  ho\v  a  mail  might  make 
a  fortune  by  hardly  a  turn  of  the  hand  if  lie 
would  only  go  far  enough  away  from  all  lie 
knew  and  loved  in  search  of  it.  That  was 
the  direction  towards  which  the  thought 
tended.  Could  she  counsel  such  a  step? 
What  couldn't  Abby  do  for  Abner  ?  She 
could  at  least  sacrifice  herself.  He  ought  to 
go  from  Juniper. 

Before  she  had  gone  to  the  house  looking 
for  Ruth,  or  to  the  blacksmith's  shop  seek 
ing  Abel  —  that  tall,  gaunt,  black-browed, 
rather  dejected-looking  man,  to  whose  face 
she  could  bring  a  kindly  smile  sooner  than 
any  other  being  except  his  wife— Abby  went 
to  speak  with  Abner,  and  good  reason  had 
she  to  be  surprised  at  what  she  found  in  his 
shop,  and  near  it,  for  neither  at  Juniper  nor 
at  Juniper  Centre  had  a  like  group  ever  be 
fore  been  seen. 

A  short,  stout,  elderly  gentleman,  whose 
head  not  only,  but  whose  face,  seemed  to  be 
covered  with  beautiful  gray  hair,  a  man 
who  looked  capable  of  coaxing  the  secrets 
out  of  any  kind  of  nature,  stood  leaning 
against  Abner's  counter,  with  every  speci 
men  that  had  ornamented  the  shelves  un 
der  his  loving  eyes.  He  was  talking  with 


M 


Abner.  Two  young  ladies,  attired  in  curious 
costume,  stood  near,  listening  to  the  con 
versation,  and  evidently  surprised  by  the 
answers  the  young  man  was  making.  One 
of  these  girls  was  Miss  Elizabeth  Smiles, 
the  professor's  daughter.  She  had  all  her 
father's  love  of  Nature,  with  an  equal  curi 
osity  concerning  the  secrets  to  be  disclosed 
by  her,  and  even  more  than  his  disposition 
to  rejoice  over  every  beautiful  thing.  She 
was  now  perceiving  in  Abner  a  second  Hugh 
Miller,  whom  her  father  would  presently 
in  a  manner  adopt,  and  by  a  rapid  mental 
process  peculiar  to  herself,  by  which  she 
decided  on  the  destiny  of  all  whom  she  met, 
Miss  Elizabeth  set  Abner  forward  on  the 
path  of  discovery,  and  made  him  a  ruler  in 
the  field  of  modern  science.  Whether  Ab- 
iier's  powerful  eyes,  his  dclibcrateness  of 
speech,  or  the  rugged  kind  of  splendor 
which  was  revealed  in  his  face  when  he 
smiled,  helped  her  in  forming  her  conclu 
sions,  I  do  not  know,  but  my  guess  in  the 
matter  is  worth  as  much,  perhaps,  as  an 
other  person's,  and  I  guess  she  was  so  as 
sisted.  Miss  Elizabeth  held  the  lamp  of 
Aladdin  in  her  hand. 

Abel  was  busy  shoeing  a  horse,  and  talk 
ing  at  the  same   time   with  the  professor's 


s;, 


wife  about  a  cut  the  auimal  had  received 
from  a  sharp  stone,  just  above  the  aukle, 
which  had  lamed  him  somewhat.  A  group 
of  three  girls  stood  near,  watching  the  oper 
ation  as  gravely  as  though  they  were  taking 
a  lesson  in  a  braiich  of  horsemanship  new  to 
them.  The  horses  on  which  the  party  had 
been  mounted  Avere  fastened  to  the  trees 
close  by,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  riders 
had  depended  on  the  animals  they  might 
chance  to  find  on  their  journey  to  take  them 
from  place  to  place. 

Nobody  noticed  Abby,  though  Abner,  she 
knew,  had  seen  her  as  she  came  around  the 
corner;  but  he  made  no  sign  to  show  that  he 
had.  She  did  not,  for  that  reason,  retire  to 
the  house.  Nobody  noticed  her,  and  there 
was  too  much  to  be  seen — the  individuals  of 
the  party,  the  beauty  of  some  of  the  faces, 
the  oddity  of  the  attire,  excited  her  curi 
osity;  their  voices  enchanted  her.  When  at 
last  they  had  mounted  their  steeds  and  rode 
away,  she  still  lingered  within  sight  and 
sound  of  what  was  going  on. 

Abuer  came  from  behind  the  counter  as 
the  gentleman  turned  from  it,  and  repeated 
his  promise  that  he  would  be  ready  to  go 
with  him  the  next  morning  at  any  time  he 
might  call  for  him,  and  then  stood  looking 


M 


after  them  as  they  slowly  rodr  away  towards 
tLe  Juniper  Inn,  and  would  not  have  vent 
ured  to  offer  his  .assistance  when  the  ladies 
were  mounting  the  steeds  had  he  not  been 
asked  to  hold  a  rein  or  a  stirrup,  and  to  pick 
up  a,  riding-whip. 

When  he  returned  to  his  shop  lie  saw 
Abby  sitting  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree  a  little 
way  up  the  hill-side.  "  There !"  he  said,  "I 
knew  you  would  be  coining.  What  do  you 
think  ?" 

"I  think  volumes,"  said  she. 
"But  what  have  you  there T      A  letter?'' 
"  Something  worth  your  reading." 
"Read  it   tome.     Will   you!"      Claim 
ing  service,  rebuking  his  claim  in  the  same 
breath — that  was  Abner. 

Abby  read  the  letter.  He  leaned  over  tin 
counter,  his  face  supported  between  his  two 
hands,  his  eyes  glowing,  and  listened. 

A  bright  fire  blazed  on  the  hearth  of  the 
Juniper  Inn  ;  for  though  the  month  was 
June,  night  brought  not  rarely  a  more  than 
chilling  breeze  through  the  valley  of  the 
Granite  Hills. 

Surrounded  by  his  wife  and  the  five  girls, 
all  his  summer  pupils,  as  he  called  them,  be 
cause  lie  loved  his  vocation  so  well,  sat  Pro- 


87 


fessor  Smiles,  happy  in  his  element.  Cau 
tion,  who  had  mild  suggestions  to  make  to 
Enthusiasm  now  and  tlien^  \vhen  it  appear 
ed  probable  that  the  latter  might  entice  the 
girls  too  fast  and  too  far,  was  now  counsel 
ling  him.  Fortunate  were  the  girls  to  have 
for  their  guide  a  man  on  culture  bent,  and 
intent,  too,  on  proving  that  the  natural  sci 
ences  offered  the  best  aids  to  mental  disci 
pline  anywhere  to  be  found. 

To  this  select  audience  around  the  fire  he 
repeated  the  story  which  he  had  somewhere 
heard  of  the  Juniper  heroes,  the  twenty  min 
isters,  the  bishop,  and  the  judge. 

Elizabeth  would  have  said,  but  for  her 
conviction  that  the  girls  would  laugh  if  she 
said  it,  "And  there's  another  hero  preparing 
to  graduate  from  the  blacksmith  shop." 

True  to  the  purpose  with  which  he  had 
set  out  on  his  tour,  the  professor  had  been 
his  own  guide  so  far,  but  ho  had  begun  to 
see  that  he  was  not  getting  his  share  of  the 
rest  which  the  vacation  should  give  him,  nor 
securing  exactly  the  results  he  had  defined 
to  himself  before  he  set  out.  A  male  com 
panion  who  should  serve  other  purposes 
than  those  of  a  servant  merely  would  great 
ly  lighten  his  cares.  He  had  been  thinking 
of  the  available  young  men  in  the  Polytech- 


nic  School  and  the  School  of  Mines,  but 
wlieu  ho  took  into  consideration  the  party 
to  whom  such  student  must  be  attendant, 
he  found  that  there  was  no  one  at  liberty 
whom  ho  would  call  to  his  aid.  Had  he  now 
and  here, in  this  out-of-the-way  place,  found 
the  very  person  whom  he  needed  f  It  would 
tally  with  many  of  Professor  Smiles's  experi 
ences  should  ho  find  that  this  was  so.  Ho 
was  always  expecting  the  best  things,  and 
generally  finding  them.  After  the  young 
people  and  his  wife  had  left  him,  while  ho 
sat  dreaming  before  the  ashen  embers,  the 
professor  recalled  and  dwelt  upon  the  intel 
ligent  face  of  the  possible  heir  of  all  the 
Juniper  greatness,  until  he  became  almost 
impatient  of  the  hours  which  must  pass  be 
fore  the  morning  walk  among  the  hills  which 
would  show  him  whether  he  had  found  here 
a  guide. 

"Something  worth  the  reading,"  said  Ab- 
by,  as  she  looked  up  from  her  letter. 

Abner  drew  the  sheet  of  paper  towards 
him  without  speaking,  and  read  it  slowly 
for  himself. 

"That  is  the  place  for  making  nimu  \." 
.said  he  at  length,  folding  the  letter  and  giv 
ing  it  back  to  her. 


Abby  was  eloquent  iu  answer,  more  so  by 
her  voice  and  glance  than,  by  her  words 
even. 

'•'  Yon  understand  it,  don't  yon  ?  Yon  buy 
the  cattle,  and  brand  them  with  your  name, 
and  then  let  theju  run.  There  is  no  feed 
ing.  They  feed  themselves.  The  prairies 
make  a  pretty  wide  field.  All  you  have  to 
do  when  you  want  to  sell  is  to  catch  them, 
and  they  are  all  ready." 

"  Yes,"  said  Abuer,  "  if  they  don't  all  get 
the  cattle  disease  and  die  off,  so  when  you 
want  'em  they  can't  be  found." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Abby. 
"There's  always  something  starting  up  you 
don't  expect." 

"Yes,"  said  Abner;  but  he  looked  quickly 
at  Abby,  as  if  he  would  encourage  her  by 
some  cheerful  words  if  she  really  needed  to 
hear  them.  Then  he  thought  how  quickly 
she  had  conie  over  to  Juniper  to  let  them 
know  about  her  cousin's  good-fortuue — in 
prospect. 

"I'd. rather  go  to  Kansas,"  said  he.  "But 
if  I  went,  I  must  go  alone.  I  wouldn't  ask 
anybody  to  go  with  me." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  she  answered.  "  Why 
should  you — unless  you  could  find  somebody 
who  had  money." 


"  You  know  what  I  mean,  Abby,"  he  said, 
slowly  and  so  gravely  that  she  blushed  ;  but 
she  rallied. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  as  handy  boarding  round 
in  wigwams  as  it  is  in  New  Hampshire,  I 
expect." 

Abuer  laughed  now. 

"If  a  girl  should  go  out  there  with  me 
she  would  have  a  rough  time  of  it.  She 
would  have  to  board  in  her  own  cabin  wrck 
in  and  week  out,  and  no  neighbors,  like 
enough.  That  would  be  lonesome.  But, 
West  or  East,  it's  all  the  same,  so  one  is  sat 
isfied." 

"  Who  is  satisfied  ?"  asked  Abby.  "  That's 
the  reason  West  or  East  isn't  all  the  same 
to  anybody.  You  are  satisfied,  thinking  yon 
will  bring  things  around  to  your  liking  some 
time.  But  you're  not  satisfied  to  have  them 
stay  as  they  are.  If  you  are,  I'm  not." 

Abuer's  eyes  brightened.  "  You  have  hit 
the  nail  on  the  head,"  said  he.  "  If  you 
would  go  with  me,  I  would  be  a  fool  to  leave 
you  behind." 

There  seemed  to  bo  nothing  to  say  to 
that — at  least,  Abby  said  nothing  directly 
in  response;  but  she  spoke  directly  to  the 
point  when  she  took  from  her  pocket  a  little 
book,  and  said  : 


"  Little  Sammy  Newton  lent  me  the  Tour 
ist's  Guide — here  it  is.  Kansas  is  a  long  way 
off.  But  you  see  they  have  marked  out  a 
railroad,  and  there — there  are  those  great 
wide  gardens,  the  prairies."  Ah,  now  it  was 
the  pioneer  that^  spoke,  that  heroic  heart 
whose  destiny  it  is  to  make  our  future.  She 
pointed  with  rather  tremulous  ringer  to  the 
section  marked  Kansas. 

Abncr  took  the  book  from  her — the  little 
paper -covered  book,  with  its  great  map 
•which  folded  into  compass  of  insignificant 
proportions — book  which  thousands  of  eyes, 
old  and  young,  have  scanned  as  closely,  as 
believingly,  as  ever  childhood  scanned  the 
wonder-books  of  fable — book  that  will  be 
studied  more  and  more  intently  by  succeed 
ing  generations.  Loug  he  studied  it  in  the 
twilight,  while  lines  and  names  were  becom 
ing  obscure.  At  last  he  folded  it,  and  gavo 
it  back  to  Abby. 

"  It  would  be  all  work  out  there,"  he  said ; 
"  but  the  chances  are  first-rate.  If  I  should 
make  up  my  mind  to  go,  Abby,  would  you 
go  with  me?" 

She  did  not  answer  instantly,  and  he  added, 
"  It  wouldn't  be  right  to  ask  it  ?" 
'•  Why  wouldn't   it  ?"  said  she,  quickly. 
"  What  difference  would  it  make  to  me?" 


09 


"Could  \ve  make  ii  home  then-  .'" 

"  Could  \ve  any  where?" 

"  If  \ve  couldn't,  I  don't  want  any." 

"Same  here,"  she  said,  in  a  playful, 
cheerful  tone ;  but  there  were  tears  iu 
her  eyes.  "  Let  me  kuow  half  an  hour 
before  you  are  ready  to  start.  You  shall 
have  your  fortune  if  I  can  help  you  to 
it." 

Abner  understood  her.  And  he  knew 
that  he  had  not  won  Abby  quite  as  easily 
as  he  seemed  to  have  done.  But  he  waa 
far  enough  from  guessing  all  her  thoughts. 
What  man,  what  woman,  in  a  like  moment 
has  guessed  all  the  other's  thoughts! 

"  We  should  risk  all  we  have,"  said  he, 
"  and  you  would  be  the  loser,  if  either  of  us, 
Abby." 

"  I  have  all  to  gain,  and  nothing  to  lose," 
she  said. 

"Well,  then,  I  think  before  long  we  will 
go  and  look  up  your  cousin." 

Hand  iu  hand  they  walked  back  to  the 
house,  and  then  Caleb's  letter  was  talked 
over  by  Abby  and  Ruth,  and  the  sisters  re 
called  the  day  when  the  orphan  boy  left 
tlu-ir  father's  house  for  the  West  with  ouly 
his  two  hands  for  his  stock  iu  trade,  and 
now  he  had  his  flocks  and  his  herds,  aud 


seemed  sure  of  Fortune's  favor.  Abel  lis 
tened  to  it  all,  and  said,  finally  : 

"If  yon  otily  go  fur  enough,  and  make  up 
your  mind  what  you  want  before  you  start, 
and  can  put  up  with  nothiu',  you  are  all 
right.  I  don't  want  one  o'  them  red  dev 
ils  carrying  round  my  top -knot  in  his 
pocket." 

While  they  talked  and  argued,  Abner 
walked  out  of  the  house,  and  made  no  haste 
to  return.  A  great  fire  was  slowly  making 
its  way  through  his  life's  secret  chamber. 
The  material  was  heavy — ignited  with  diffi 
culty  ;  but  it  had  been  kindled,  and  it 
would  be  long  before  the  flame  went  out. 

He  went  to  his  shop,  restored  the  miner 
als  to  their  places  on  the  shelves  again,  and 
looked  around  him,  not  with  the  eyes  of  a 
pleased  proprietor,  but  with  the  observa 
tion  of  a  critic  who  has  discovered  a  stand 
ard  more  exacting  than  he  has  known  be 
fore. 

His  aspect  as  he  stood  there  reflecting  on 
the  Kansas  prospect,  and  on  the  party  whom 
he  was  to  escort  in  the  morning  to  Hopper's 
Glen,  ten  miles  distant,  might  not  have  led 
a  stranger  to  suspect  what  had  passed  be 
tween  a  spirited  young  woman  and  himself 
during  that  past  hour.  Yet  he  had  not  been 


M 


able  to  dwell  upon  the  fact  that  was  now 
established  \\\ih  regard  to  their  future  as  ho 
sat  in  the  house.  He  required  all  out-doors, 
the  heavens  above  and  the  stars,  the  free 
air  and  the  hills,  for  the  tabernacle  of  that 
fact.  The  doubt  he  had  long  entertained 
whether  this  bright-minded  Abby  would 
ever  consent  to  share  his  slow  fortunes — for 
he  had  not  seen  without  perceiving  the  skil 
ful  hand  with  which  she  brought  order  out 
of  disorder  wherever  she  went,  and  how  rich 
she  was  in  suggestion  when  other  people 
seemed  to  bo  at  their  wits'  end  —  had  cost 
him  much  disquiet,  and  now  it  was  removed ! 
He  could  not  but  be  amazed.  No  place  short 
of  Kansas  seemed  to  offer  him  a  field  large 
enough  and  conditions  generous  enough  for 
the  enterprise  he  must  engage  in,  with  Abby 
for  a  partner. 

So  it  was  that  he  could  not  sit  quietly  in 
the  house  thinking  of  these  things,  and  hear 
Abel  talk  about  the  lack  of  timber  in  Kansas 
and  the  prairie  fires,  the  cattle  disease,  and 
the  Indians.  How  should  he  suspect  that 
Abel  in  this  talk  was  merely  trying  to  rea 
son  himself  into  content  with  his  own  small 
chance  at  fortune,  and  curbing  his  restive 
spirit  to  do  the  plodding  work  of  duty,  ex 
pounding,  in  his  way,  the  doctrine  of  com- 


9.1 


pensation,  which  lie  had  once  heard  preached 
by  Now  England's  high-priest  ? 

It  was  full  ten  miles  to  Hopper's  Glen,  and 
as  the  way  was  none  of  the  smoothest,  the 
professor  had  decided  to  go  on  foot,  and, 
quite  contrary  to  expectation,  his  wife  and 
the  five  girls  decided  to  accompany  him, 
and  made  such  a  scornful  outcry,  when  ho 
had  thrown  ten  miles  of  difficulty  in  their 
way,  that  he  was  quite  ready  to  yield;  and 
having  ascertained  that  tiie  tourists  were 
prepared  in  advance  for  climbing  rocky  hill 
sides,  and  for  crossing,  if  need  be,  unbridged 
streams  and  swamp  lauds,  all  set  forth. 

Going  or  returning,  the  young  people 
never  lost  sight  of  the  professor  or  their 
guide.  They  rested  by  the  way-side  under 
forest  trees,  examining  the  floral  specimens 
gathered  as  they  went ;  with  their  small 
hammers  they  tapped  a  cheerful  tune  on  the 
venerable  rocks,  and  they  enriched  them 
selves  with  the  crystals  which  seemed  to  be 
seech  of  them  release  from  the  place  of  their 
captivity.  They  made  themselves  at  home 
in  Nature's  grounds,  and  manifestly  were 
her  dearly  beloved  children. 

Abner  thought  of  Matthew  on  that  excur 
sion,  and  blushed  to  think  how  high  he  had 


M 


supposed  his  own  aims  to  Lave  been,  how 
low  they  really  were.  The  professor  mani 
fested  no  little  desire  to  be  taught  concern 
ing  the  region;  and  Abner  could  tell  him 
the  "lay  of  the  land."  and  the  formation  of 
the  rocky  region  within  a  radius  of  fifty 
miles,  as  well  as  if  he  had  studied  a  treatise 
on  tbe  subject.  He  had  once  accompanied 
an  engineer,  who  went  seeking  the  most 
direct  line  for  a  railway  across  the  Stale, 
and  in  that  tour  Abner  had  learned  to  use 
his  eyes.  The  rocks,  trees,  streams,  had 
taken  their  place  in  his  memory,  and  what 
ever  information  that  was  desired  concern 
ing  them  he  could  give.  The  professor  was 
not  so  much  surprised  as  pleased.  He  knew 
how  in  that  barren  land,  side  by  side  with 
the  need  which  demanded  labor  of  the 
hands,  fair  culture  throve;  and  had.  Abner 
been  ten  times  as  well  versed  iu  book- 
knowledge  as  he  was,  it  would  not  have 
astonished  him. 

But  those  girls,  would  they  not  have  been 
astonished  had  Abby  also  been  of  the  party  ? 
Let  them  try  conjugating  Latin  verbs  with 
her,  or  quoting  from  Vergil,  or  singing  witli 
the  birds,  or  dishing  up  a  good  meal  under 
nupropitious  circumstances!  I  wish  Abby 
had  been  of  that  company.  Would  she  have 


97 


Lad,  as  Abner  had,  an  at  first  overwhelming 
sense  of  the  distance  that  lay  between  her 
and  her  company  ?  Perhaps,  and  probably 
on  her  own  behalf;  but  she  would  have  been 
astonished  and  indignant  that  Abuer  shared 
the  humiliation.  „ 

Poor  fellow!  true  to  his  inspiration,  ho 
said,  "Mat  would  not  have  felt  it,  because 
it  wouldn't  have  existed."  But,  as  one 
moment  swiftly  followed  another,  the  ideal 
Mat  supplied  Abner  with  reasons  why  he 
should,  stand  erect  in  this  company,  and 
with  modest  self-respect  he  finally  stood 
erect.  Oh,  Matthew  Keardon,  if  you  saw 
your  work,  were  not  you  amazed  thereat? 
Nevertheless,  Hail  to  every  veiled  prophet," 
thought  of  whom  has  nourished  in  human 
hearts  the  passion  of  worship ! 

The  next  day  after  this  excursion  to  the 
Glen,  which  far  exceeded  in  its  wonderful 
beauty  anything  that  had  been  imagined 
by  the  most  fancy-free  of  the  little  party, 
Professor  Smiles  went  down  to  Abuer's  shopj 
and  proposed  that  he  should  join  him  and 
the  ladies  as  a  guide  on  their  projected  trip 
across  the  State  to  the  White  Hills. 

They  expected,  he  said,  to  be  absent  from 
home  a  month  or  six  weeks  longer ;  and,  be 
sides  expenses,  fair  wages  would  be  allowed. 

7 


The  professor  dwelt  briefly  011  the  advan 
tages  the  youug  man  might  derive  from  the 
trip,  and  gave  him  a  day  to  decide. 

Here  was  a  great  opportunity.  Should 
Abuer  reject  it,  think  lightly  of  it,  grind  on 
with  his  feeble  hand  Fortune's  grist,  while 
here  was  the  great  windmill,  with  all  the 
winds  of  heaven  waiting  to  fill  the  sails  ? 
It  depended  on  how  he  looked  at  the  chance. 
The  professor  had  explained  it  well.  The  lad 
•was  no  fool ;  he  could  not  see  far  into  the 
future,  but  he  conld  see  with  tolerable  eyes 
the  present.  One  day  with  this  party  had 
given  him  a  hundred  new  ideas.  Perhaps 
Abby  could  look  after  the  shop ;  she  iutend- 
*ed  to  spend  her  vacation,  now  at  baud,  with 
Ruth.  Why  did  he  say  to  himself  instantly 
rather  than  allow  her  to  perform  such  serv 
ice,  he  would  give  his  wares  over  to  moth, 
rust,  and  mildew  ?  Let  it  not  be  supposed 
that  had  Abner  been  required  to  give  his 
answer  to  the  professor  within  an  hour  he 
could  not  have  given  it.  There  was,  in  re 
ality,  no  hesitation  in  his  mind,  merely  the 
shadows  of  a  few  doubts  which  were  hover 
ing  around,  but  would  never  come  boldly 
into  sight. 

In  the  female  mind  of  the  family,  how 
ever,  another  view  was  taken  of  this  oppor- 


99 


tnnity  than  Abuer  took.  Abel's  wife,  who 
had  been  thinking  with  increasing  enthu 
siasm,  not  to  say  longing,  of  the  cattle  ou 
those  plains,  where  the  way  to  fortune  was 
made  easy,  asked— and  no  wonder — "  Will 
tramping  over  the^hills  be  the  same,  or  bet 
ter,  than  getting  ready  for  Kansas  ?  Time 
is  worth  something ; "  while  the  mother  of 
sainted  Matthew  was  troubled  about  the  ap 
ple  crop,  which  should  have  instant  atten 
tion  if  Abner  expected  to  send  to  market  his 
hundred  bushels  of  dried  fruit,  as  he  did  last 
year.  It  is  indeed  a  grave  matter  to  let  go 
the  hold  ou  certainty —  such  chasing  of 
chimeras  as  the  appalled  human  heart  has 
seen  since  the  beginning! 

"Maybe  not,"  Abner  said  to  Ruth.  "I 
must  take  my  chance,  though  ;  and,  anyway, 
there'll  be  room  for  me  in  Kansas  after  that. 
It  seems  to  me  as  if  a  door  had  opened,  and 
I  must  go  in."  To  his  mother  he  said,  "  The 
apple  business  is  very  well  in  its  way,  but  I 
think  I  see  a  short-cut  to  college."  And  he 
said  the  same  thing  to  Abby,  though  in  other 
words ;  and  she  answered,  with  the  under 
standing  and  the  heart : 

"  Go  with  'em,  Abner.  As  you  say,  Kansas 
is  as  likely  to  stand  fast  as  anything.  You 
can  take  your  chance  there  any  time." 


100 

Her  encouraging  word  seemed  to  circuit- 
him.  He  acknowledged  to  himself  that  it 
did — so  it  was  all  oue.  Abby  was  associ 
ated  with  his  decision — for  better,  for  worse. 
Doubtless  he  would  have  gone  without  her 
encouragement,  but  it  was  in  accordance 
with  all  that  favored  his  going  out  that  she 
should  see,  as  he  did,  that  there  was  a  chance 
uot  to  be  made  light  of.  No  matter  whether 
all  or  half  he  expected,  or  nothing,  came  of 
the  "  tramping,"  Abby  would  never  go  back 
of  her  counsel  and  lament  it.  She  did  not 
belong  to  the  stoics,  who  never  repent,  but 
had  the  steady  brain  of  a  Juniper  girl,  and 
counselled  according  to  her  light,  and  took 
the  consequences  bravely.  I  would  like  to 
discourse  on  Abby,  but  I  resist  the  tempta 
tion. 

The  next  day  saw  Abner  Rcardon  going 
out  of  Juniper,  not  to  return  that  season, 
nor  for  many  another. 

The  professor  liked  the  young  man  at  tlxi 
outset,  and  as  they  proceeded  on  their  jour 
ney,  day  after  day,  he  liked  him  more  and 
more,  and  at  length,  when  the  right  moment 
had  come,  he  proposed  that  he  should  go 
back  with  him  to  town  as  his  assistant, 
offering  him  as  compensation  a  home  in  his 
own  house  and  a  collegiate  course. 


101 


The  proposal  startled  Abner.  He  wrote 
home  to  Abby.  What  did  Abby  answer? 
"You  aud  I'arU'Ji'VtVsu'cii  idiots  i'liat  we  can 
not  see  that  New  England  is  your  trump 
card,  and  not4yil1isa?-'?"  S<X  4-1^4*  ?*£l*k,back 
with  the  professo'r*  to"  Boston  ',  and 'is  there 
need  that  I  should  show  that  the  gentleman 
had  secured  an  invaluable  assistant?  Any 
body  can  tell  how  it  was  that  he  proved 
himself  invaluable  who  considers  the  dis 
cipline  to  which  Abner  had  subjected  him 
self  since  he  began  to  think.  He  was  mas 
ter  of  himself  iu  many  directions:  more 
methodical,  more  painstaking  and  exact,than 
any  other  student  in  college  ;  and  so  thor 
oughly  did  he  understand  the  truest  way  of 
getting  on  that  he  yielded  only  at  rare  in 
tervals  to  the  make-shifts  of  brilliaut  lazi 
ness.  I  am  compelled  in  all  seriousness  to 
say  of  him,  in  commendation,  what  oue  can 
hardly  suggest  now  in  reference  to  thinker 
or  worker  without  exciting  critical  suspi 
cion  or  pathetic  commiseration — that  he  was 
"  conscientious"  in  his  work. 

There  seemed  to  be  reason  sufficient  why 
he  should  not  return  to  Juniper  invariably 
at  holiday  seasons.  He  had,  in  fact,  few 
holidays  that  were  his  own  for  leisure.  His 
vacations  were  spent  chiefly  iu  journeys 


102 


with  or  for  Professor  Smiles.  Ho  made  tlio 
tour  of  libraries  and  laboratories •;  his  hands 
seemed  tc  be  ahvayy  frll  of  noics  in  short 
hand  ;  and  time  sped  so  fast  he  had  had 
hardly.  Qpp-oftinjiry.  fqr*iiHhilj*ing  In  a  re- 
grett'ul  thought  concerning  Juniper.  And 
when  now  and  then  at  rare  intervals  he  did 
go  back  to  the  silent  hill  country,  do  you 
think  it  was  all  the  same  as  if  during  his 
absence  he  had  worked  in  a  less  absorbed 
way?  How  is  it  with  those  who  plunge 
into  trade  or  politics  to  win  the  glory  or 
the  gold  wherewith  they  will  go  back  to 
adorn  the  home  and  secure  the  ideal  ?  Do 
they  find  the  old  home  where  they  left  it  f 
Is  it  forever  to  remain  what  it  was  when 
the  heart  loved  it  best  f  Is  the  ideal  there  ? 
Abby  was  there,  that  good  girl  who  loved 
him  ;  and  his  poor  old  mother ;  sickly  Ruth ; 
the  little  house  full  of  children  ;  Abel,  grow 
ing  gray  and  wrinkled ;  the  paralytic  fa 
ther  ;  hills  that  looked  not  so  high  as  once  ; 
a  blacksmith's  shop,  into  which  no  thought, 
apparently,  beyond  that  of  rudest  labor  had 
ever  entered.  Envy  not  the  youth  those 
visits  homo.  Twice  he  returned  thither, 
and  the  professor,  who  watched  him  nar 
rowly,  inspecting  him  on  his  return  the  sec 
ond  time,  said  to  himself,  "  This  will  usver 


103 


do.  He  must  stay  with  me  till  he  has  his 
diploma,  or  ho  will  lose  all  heart  and  cour 
age."  The  professor  had  himself  kuown 
the  early  privation,  the  hnmble  home,  the 
dismay  awaiting  awakened  intelligence  that 
has  not  yet  compjissed  the  all  of  human  ex 
perience.  He  understood  what  he  per 
ceived  in  Abuer  when  he  came  back  from 
these  visits,  and  therefore  determined  that 
they  should  not  be  repeated.  "  Get  thee  out 
of  thine  own  country,"  "  Forget  thy  people 
and  thy  father's  house,"  he  would  have  said 
in  so  many  words  had  he  not  had  the 
knowledge  of  a  more  excellent  way. 

Abner  began  to  be  talked  about  in  col 
lege  circles,  and  to  appear  now  and  then  in 
social  gatherings.  Wise  ones  said  that  he 
was  made  of  "  the  right  stuff,"  and  to  speak 
of  him  as  a  young  man  of  great  promise. 
Elderly  ladies  took  notice  of  him  ;  and  there 
was  one  young  lady — I  need  not  say  the 
professor's  daughter  Elizabeth,  who  studied 
botany,  chemistry,  and  mineralogy  with 
him — a  young  lady  in  whom  scientific  pre 
dilections  were  as  the  vital  spark — who 
sometimes  congratulated  herself  on  the 
summer  trip  which  had  discovered  Abner. 
This  young  lady  !  Must  it  not  have  been  a 
pleasant  thing  for  a  young  working-man  like 


104 


Abner,  whoso  hands  and  whose  thoughts 
found  so  constantly  noble  occupation,  to 
have  for  a  companion  one  who  understood 
his  successes  because  she  understood  so  well 
the  obstacles  he  had  overcome  in  winning 
them?  Could  a  comparison  between  his 
old  home  and  his  present  abode  suggest  it 
self,  and  not  suggest  also  a  train  of  thought 
which  might  lead — who  would  dare  to  pre 
dict,  who  could  avoid  predicting,  whither  f 

And  this  companion  was  a  handsome  girl, 
quick-witted,  gay-hearted,  sweet-tempered, 
capable  of  hard  study  and  of  deep  thought, 
and  the  daughter  of  the  man  who  had 
proved  his  best  friend,  his  more  than  father. 
Poor  Abby !  But  then,  after  all,  even  the 
great  wall  of  China  could  not  secure  from 
the  nineteenth  century  the  foredoomed  Ce 
lestials.  Aud  all  things  must  take  their 
chances. 

In  writing  to  Abby  one  day  Aimer  per 
ceived  a  reluctance  which  was  perhaps  not 
quite  new,  but  which  was  more  intelligible 
than  it  had  been  before.  It  occasioned  a 
peculiar  movement  of  his  pen,  and  its  sus 
pension  in  the  air.  It  seemed  unlikely  that 
ho  would  add  another  word.  And  yet  he 
did  add  many.  He  deliberately  entered  on 
an  elaborate  description  of  the  social  aspect 


of  his  life  in  the  city,  and  it  was  almost  as 
if  he  thought  that  by  doing  this  his  dear 
girl  might  possibly  be  led  to  see  with  her 
own.  eyes  more  than  he  could  say — how  un 
like  Juniper  life  this  life  he  was  living  was, 
and  how  improbable  it  was  that  Juniper,  or 
anybody  in  Juniper  would  ever  have  in  him 
the  man  anticipated.  It  became  after  that 
his  desire  to  find  ont  how  many  of  all  Juni 
per's  great  men  had  gone  back  to  Juniper 
for  a  wife.  How  strange  it  was  that,  after 
months  and  months  of  waiting,  he  had 
found  courage  to  speak  to  Abby  the  very 
night  when  the  professor  came  to  Juniper! 
Looking  at  the  relations  he  sustained  to 
ward  Abby  with  the  unpoetic  eyes  of  com 
mon-sense,  it  must  at  once  be  seen  that  for 
Abner  to  have  cherished  at  this  time  any 
great  enthusiasm  in  view  of  those  relations 
would  argue  a  very  remarkable  youth  in 
deed.  Do  you,  my  reader,  happen  to  know 
one  such  elect  of  invinciblcs?  Of  stanch 
fidelity  he  might  be  capable,  but  consider 
how  society  dazzles  the  gray-beards,  and 
then  think  of  this  lad.  The  well-dressed 
woman  of  the  world  wills  not  to  be  rudely 
ignored  by  the  rustic  genius.  Soft  hair, 
sweet  eyes,  sweet  voices,  perfumes,  gar 
ments,  graces,  know  you  not  all  your  worth  I 


106 


Correspondence  between  Juniper  and  Bos 
ton  did  not  rival  telegrams.  Four-footed 
beasts  could  do  all  its  work  acceptably.  No 
need  of  the  birds  of  the  air. 

One  day  Abner  received  a  letter  from 
Abby,  saying  that  Abel's  wife  had  died,  and 
that  she  was  staying  with  the  family. 
There  was  great  need  of  a  strong-handed 
woman  in  the  house,  and  poor  Abel,  she 
knew  not  what  would  become  of  him.  And 
then  the  children,  the  poor  little  motherless 
children,  that  were  to  live  and  grow  up  in 
this  hard  world ! 

Abner  read  it,  and  he  folt  not  a  little 
grieved,  thinking  of  poor  Ruth.  But  the 
letter  came  at  a  time  when  ho  was  more 
than  usually  occupied  with  laboratory  and 
class  work,  and  when  his  eyes  happened  to 
fall  on  it  several  hours  after  he  had  received 
it,  he  was  chiefly  shocked  to  find  how  little 
impression  the  death  even  of  this  woman, 
whom  he  had  once  thought  of  as  a  great 
family  blessing,  had  made  upon  him. 

When  his  hurry  was  over  he  deliberately 
sat  down  to  think  upon  all  these  entangle 
ments  and  snares  which  beset  him,  and  one 
result  of  his  thinking  was  that  ho  told  Eliz 
abeth  about  Abby  and  the  Kansas  cattle 
plan,  which  had  been  unexpectedly  de- 


107 


feated  by  the  coming  of  her  father  and  the 
party  by  whom  he  was  carried  out  of  Juni 
per.  Consider  his  condition.  Could  he 
have  told  her  with  any  other  hope  than 
that  by  so  doing  he  would  be  thrown  npon 
his  honor,  and  stand  committed  to  noblest 
behavior  before  -the  professor's  daughter, 
that  noblest  woman  in  the  world  ?  And  yet 
he  had  been  thinking,  "Poor  Abel!  what 
will  become  of  him,  with  all  that  load  on 
him  ?  Abby  was  always  fond  of  his  chil 
dren.  He  will  be  obliged  to  marry  again. 
Wliat  a  mother  she  would  prove  to  those 
motherless  little  ones !  No  other  man  than 
Abel— but— " 

A  curious  train  of  thought  for  a  young 
lover  to  take  up  and  seriously  entertain, 
and  not  for  a  day  only.  A  mouth,  six  weeks 
passed,  six  mouths,  and  the  thought  was 
not  yet  worn  threadbare  and  dismissed. 
One  day  Abuer  went  to  the  professor  and 
said  :  "  Do  not  think  me  foolish.  I  know 
exactly  how  things  stand.  I  shall  have  my 
diploma  within  a  fortnight,  if  ever,  and 
there's  not  a  little  work  to  be  done  ;  but  I 
must  go  home.  I  can't  study.  I  can't  fix 
my  mind  on  anything.  They  need  me  there 
to  settle  things.  We  have  met  with  a  loss. 
They  do  not  say  it  outright,  but  I  know  I 


can  bo  of  great  service  to  all,  and  there  is 
no  use  of  my  trying  to  accomplish  anything 
here  as  I  am  now." 

The  professor  looked  surprised,  of  course. 
It  was  not  the  report  of  himself  he  could 
have  expected  of  Abner,  his  model  of  self- 
discipline,  bnt  he  said:  "If  you  must  go, 
you  must ;  but  I  should  be  sorry  if  anything 
hindered  your  going  abroad  with  us  alter 
Commencement,  my  son.1' 

When  Abucr  looked  at  Elizabeth,  who 
was  in  the  room  preparing  certain  botan 
ical  specimens  for  her  father's  class,  she, 
absorbed  in  her  work,  felt  that  he  was  look 
ing  at  her,  and,  half  lifting  her  eyes,  said  : 

"  Who  knows  what  the  young  lady  will 
say  ?  Perhaps  she  can  go  too." 

What  did  she  mean  by  that?  As  kindly 
as  she  said  ?  Was  it  probable  that  she 
would  be  so  ill-bred  and  so  cruel  as  to  smite 
and  humiliate  him  by  the  suggestion  of  an 
impossibility,  which,  had  it  been  a  possi 
bility,  would  still  perhaps  have  pleased  him 
so  little? 

The  professor  looked  from  his  daughter 
to  Abner,  as  if  about  to  exclaim,  "  How's 
that  I"  bnt  he  did  not  say  it. 

I  Living  found  the  way  so  clear  to  Juni 
per,  Abner  advanced.  He  took  it  without 


rcluctauce — but  with  gladness  ?  Yes,  but 
gladness  may  have  little  joy.  When  the 
sense  of  honor  must  be  appealed  to  in  be 
half  of  love,  how  is  it  with  love  ?  Abner 
packed  his  worldly  goods  in  a  portmanteau, 
and  went  to  Juniper  to  say  to  Abby  what 
he  could  not  write.  He  would  know  whether 
it  must  be  said  the  instant  he  looked  at  her. 
If  either  of  them  had  made  a  mistake  choos 
ing  for  life  and  life's  happiness,  best  for  life, 
liberty,  and  sacred  honor  that  they  should 
know  it  before  the  further  and  more  fatal 
mistake  had  been  made.  He  believed  that 
the  first  mistake  was  not  to  be  denied.  Ho 
must  explain  things  to  Abby,  must  talk  with 
her  face  to  face,  aud  after  that  they  would 
always  be  friends. 

So  he  left  the  city,  and  went  by  the 
crowded  routes  of  travel  homeward  till  he 
came  within  fifty  miles  of  Juniper,  then  by 
stage;  and  at  last,  on  foot,  he  approached 
tlio  blacksmith's  shop  and  the  house  of 
Beardon. 

The  door  of  the  old  brown  house  stood 
open  as  he  approached.  How  every  vine 
aud  shrub  and  tree  in  the  neighborhood  had 
grown  during  those  two  years  which  had 
not  been  broken  by  return !  The  lilac  bushes 
were  as  a  wall  shielding  the  house  from  the 


no 


road,  and  gave  to  the  place  an  aspect  of  se 
clusion,  though  the  blacksmith's  shop  was 
so  close  at  hand.  The  old  trees  looked 
older,  the  old  house  more  humble.  A  little 
yellow-haired  girl  was  swinging  on  the  gate 
— Abel's  motherless  girl,  he  knew — with  a 
flower  in  her  hand.  Ruth  stood  there  when 
he  went  away,  with  a  smile  op  her  face  and 
tears  in  her  kind  eyes,  and  wished  him  well. 
Where  was  she  now  T  Could  she  from  any 
near  or  far  distance  look  upon  him  as  he 
came  f 

He  spoke  to  the  little  girl.  But  she  had 
forgotten  him,  and  when  he  looked  at  her 
with  such  scrutiny  in  his  eyes,  she  jumped 
down  from  the  gate  and  ran  into  the  house. 
He  made  no  haste  to  follow  her,  but  stood 
looking  around  him ;  and  so,  presently,  a 
voice  quite  near  said  to  him  : 

"You  might  come  in,  perhaps." 

Then  he  saw  Abby  standing  in  the  gate 
way  looking  at  him  with  a  gaze  every  whit 
as  terrifying  as  he  had  bestowed  just  now 
upon  the  child,  but  merely  because  they 
were  Abby's  own  eyes  that  looked,  calm, 
steady,  tender. 

Here,  then,  was  Abel's  wife  and  the 
mother  of  Ruth's  motherless  children.  He 
ventured  a  question,  like  one  half  wakened 


Ill 


from  sleep  and  from  iiightmare.  Yet  be 
had  not  come  home  to  play  with  words. 

"  Are  you  ready  for  Kansas  ?"  said  be. 

"Are  you  ?"  sbe  asked  iu  turn. 

"  We  will  talk  about  that,"  he  answered. 
"Where's  mother!" 

Was  it  mere  honor  that  had  spoken  ? 
Must  he  now  shame  himself  by  his  midnight 
reflections  on  duty,  after  he  had  heard  from 
Abel  and  his  mother  how  Abby  had  been  as 
the  mother  of  the  household  since  poor 
Eutb's  death,  even  as  Abner  and  as  Abuer's 
wife,  the  mother  and  the  servant  of  all  ? 

Possibly  he  had  need  to  test  himself  still 
further  in  order  to  discover  whether  he  was 
in  honor  bound.  Possibly  Abby,  aware  of 
what  she  did,  supplied  the  test ;  but  I  think 
not.  I  think  it  was  rather  the  result  of  sad 
and  solemn  thinking  that  made  her  say  to 
him,  next  day,  when  she  had  made  for  her 
self  an  opportunity : 

"  Abuer,  the  neighbors  say  I  ought  to 
marry  Abel." 

"  They  know  what  your  duty  is,  I  dare 
say,"  he  answered,  \vith  a  glow  on  his  face 
kindled  by  what  fire,  let  us  hope,  she  would 
never  suspect. 

"  But  I  am  thinking  the  same  thing." 

"  Abel  too,  I  dare  say." 


"  I  don't  know.     But — poor  Abel !" 

"You  expect  me  to  give  you  away  —  is 
that  it?  To-day,  then,  for  I  must  go  back 
to-morrow." 

"  I  expect  your  consent,"  she  said,  grave 
ly,  so  much  absorbed  by  what  she  had  to 
say  and  by  what  she  was  saying  that  she 
seemed  to  pay  no  heed  to  what  was  evi 
dently  enough  passing  within  bis  mind, 
who  had  so  unexpectedly  found  the  door 
of  deliverance  opening.  "Abel  must  mar 
ry.  There  are  all  those  children — who  cau 
take  care  of  them  as  well  f  And  the  old 
people  ?  As  to  you — "  She  did  uot  look  at 
him. 

"  As  to  me,"  he  said,  turning  his  back 
suddenly  on  the  door  of  which  I  have 
spoken,  and  expressing  himself  with  a  di 
rectness  which  must  have  amazed  him,  "if 
I  am  uot  worth  your  taking,  let  it  be  as  yon 
have  said." 

"  I  have  set  my  common-sense  at  work," 
said  she.  "  I  have  thought  a  great  deal 
about  it.  lloston  isn't  like  .hmiprr.  It  is 
inhabited  by  another  kind  of  people." 

"It  js  indeed,"  said  he. 

"  Your  kind — not  mine." 

"  I  deny  that." 

"  Well,  you  cau  find  your  kind  there." 


113 


"  When  I  Lave  found  already  -what  I 
\vant,  and  it  is  mine !" 

"Don't  think  of  that,  Abuer,"  she  said, 
quickly.  "  That  belonged  to  the  old  time. 
Since  then  everything  is  changed.  I  have 
often  thought  it  never  could  have  happened 
if  I  hadn't  come  over  that  night  with  Cousin 
Caleb's  letter."  She  was  sufficiently  in  ear 
nest. 

"  Then  you  have  learned  to  love  Abel — 
and  it  was  a  mistake  about  me,"  said  Abner, 
slowly. 

"I  have  learned  many  things  since  you 
went  away." 

How  did  it  happen  that  a  little  later  in 
the  day  Abner  was  calling  on  all  that  was 
within  him  to  prove  to  Abby  that  a  diploma 
•wasn't  worth  the  having  if  it  took  him  away 
from  her  again  ? 

"  So  far  as  I  can  see,"  she  said,  "  you  are 
in  honor  bound  to  the  professor.  No  Kansas 
for  us  yet."  Where  had  she  learned  those 
words  which  had  haunted  and  tormented 
him  so  long?  And  did  he  tell  her  then,  by 
way  of  warning,  that  Miss  Elizabeth  was 
there  in  the  place  to  which  she  would  re 
turn  him  ?  Not  he.  He  had  forgotten  Miss 
Elizabeth.  It  was,  in  fact,  Abby's  talk  that 
sent  Abuer  the  next  day  back  to  town,  and 


114 


coustraiued  biin  to  remain  there  until 
be  should  have  rendered  some  invaluable 
service  to  Professor  Smiles.  But  who  does 
not  behold  on  the  far  Kansas  plains  a 
thousand  cattle  bearing  A.  R.'s  brand  f 

What  did  Abner  see  in  the  eyes  of  Miss 
Elizabeth  when  he  went  back  f  Bountiful 
loving-kindness.  And — no  more  T  No  more 
that  he  could  interpret. 

"  I  should  have  expected  the  heavens  to. 
tall  as  soon  as  to  hear  that  you  did  not 
know  your  own  heart  and  mind,  Abner.  I 
never  could  have  forgiven  you  if  you  had 
not  seen  how  you  were  in  honor  bound." 

"  Ah !"  said  he ;  "  but  that  was  not  it, 
Miss  Elizabeth.  Though,  perhaps,  I  thought 
it  was." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  she. 

Thank  God  for  every  creature  who  iu  the 
Father's  House  makes  himself  a  zealous  cus 
todian  of  the  sacred  ideals ! 


AN -ISLANDER. 

BY  MISS  MARGARET   CROSBY. 
I. 

AT  four  o'clock  on  a  September  afternoon 
Vestal  Street,  Nantucket,  is  curiously  quiet. 
The  square  white  bouses  stand  on  either 
side  of  the  sandy  road.  The  lowering  sun 
light  is  beginning  to  cast  a  gray  shadow 
across  its  glaring  whiteness.  The  houses 
have  no  outside  shutters,  and  the  closed  in 
side  blinds,  of  solid  wood  painted  white, 
have  a  sightless  expression.  Beyond,  in 
Lily  Street  and  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
town,  many  of  the  houses  have  a  railed 
platform  on  the  roof,  called  the  "  walk," 
where  the  Nantucket  wives  were  wont,  in 
former  days,  to  watch  longingly  the  out 
ward  or  homeward  bound  sails;  but  in 
Vestal  Street  the  houses  have  not  this  dig 
nity.  From  their  upper  windows  is  seen 
the  old  windmill,  on  its  green  mound,  and 


116 


the  moor,  undulating  unbrokeuly  for  three 
miles  uutil  the  sen  is  reached. 

Ou  such  an  afternoon  in  one  of  these 
houses  an  elderly  man  and  woman  sat  in  the 
living-room  talking  together.  Both  were 
seated  in  black  wooden  rockiug-chairs ;  and 
as  these  two  persons  talked  they  rocked, 
the  creaking  of  the  chairs  keeping  up  a 
groaning  accompaniment  to  their  conversa 
tion. 

"So  Eunice  wouldn't  go  to  the  Continent 
with  Mrs.  Lane?"  said  the  old  man.  "  Well, 
Mrs.  Adams,  I  always  said  she  was  one  of 
the  elect." 

He  was  small  and  thin ;  his  face  was 
smooth-shaven,  all  but  a  fringe  of  white 
beard  that  started  close  to  his  ears  and  ran 
around  under  his  chin.  The  same  fringe 
grew  low  down  on  his  bald  head  and  waved 
on  the  collar  of  his  bine  flannel  coat.  His 
face,  thus  left  exposed,  had  an  expression  of 
innocent  curiosity  and  kindliness. 

At  one  of  the  windows  a  shutter  \vas 
open,  and  a  square  of  blue  mosquito-netting 
in  a  frame  fitted  into  the  casements  and 
kept  the  flies  out.  Mrs.  Adams  sat  by  this 
window  making  a  patch-work  quilt,  and 
rocking  gently  as  she  sewed.  She  had  a 
rigid,  cautious  face  and  gray  hair,  brushed 


117 


smoothly  down  on  either  side  of  her  fore 
head.  She  spoke  with  emphasis. 

"You  are  right,  Deacon  Swain,  Eunice 
has  always  had  a  calling,  as  I  may  say. 
From  the  time  she  was  right  small  she  was 
seriously  inclined.  She's  a  conscientious 
girl,  if  I  do  say  it.  It  was  a  chance  to  go 
to  the  Continent  to  New  York,  and  it  weren't 
nothing  to  be  governess  to  Mrs.  Lane's 
children  compared  to  teaching  school  here; 
but  she  had  a  call  to  stay  here.  She  said 
she  couldn't  go  off  suddenly  and  leave 
everything  at  loose  ends.  She'd  undertook 
the  grammar-school,  and  this  was  her  place." 

Deacon  Swain's  face  glowed  with  ap 
proval. 

"Yet  it  icas  a  chance  to  go  to  New  York," 
he  said,  as  if  to  provoke  Mrs.  Adams  to 
further  speech. 

"  So  folks  said,"  Mrs.  Adams  answered, 
dryly.  "  But  Eunice  only  said  as  she  didn't 
know  as  they  needed  her  over  to  the  Conti 
nent,  and  they  did  here,  so  'twas  her  duty 
to  stay." 

By  "Continent"  a  Nantucketer  always 
means  the  mainland.  Mrs.  Adams  paused, 
and  then  resumed,  with  a  slight  change  of 
tone, 

"  Have  you  called  a  minister  yet  ?" 


118 


"  Well — no — "  replied  the  deacon. 

"Should  think  you'd  best  be  hurryin' 
up,"  said  Mrs.  Adams,  with  some  severity. 
"It's  a  cry  in'  disgrace  that  the  Congrega 
tional  Church  of  Nantucket  should  be  so 
long  without  a  minister.  There's  a  falliu' 
away,  and  it'll  grow.  I  heard  of  Maria 
Barnes  and  all  the  Aaron  Macys  at  the 
Episcopal  Church  last  Sunday." 

The  deacon  looked  uneasy. 

"  That's  so,"  he  assented ;  but  he  added, 
guardedly,  "  We  had  a  meetiu'  yesterday, 
and  we're  bringin'  matters  to  a  p'iut  's 
quick 's  we  can.  Where's  Eunice  f"  he  con 
cluded. 

"Out  in  the  back  lot,  parin'  apples  for 
apple-butter,"  Mrs.  Adams  answered. 

There  was  a  pause  of  a  few  moments, 
while  the  two  rockers  creaked  in  concert. 

"How  does  your  boarder  suit?"  inquired 
the  deacon  at  last. 

The  cautious  expression  deepened  in  Mrs. 
Adams's  face. 

"  Well  enough !"  she  said,  shortly. 

The  deacon  looked  at  her  with  mild  yet 
active  curiosity. 

"  Does  he — um — pay  regular  ?" 

"Yes,  he  pays  regular  enough,"  Mrs. 
Adams  admitted. 


119 


The  deacon  gazed,  meditatively  at  the 
ceiling.  He  did  not  wish  to  appear  eager, 
yet  he  was  anxious  to  discover  the  secret  of 
Mrs.  Adams's  dissatisfaction  with  her  lodger. 

"I  must  say  the  young  man  commends 
himself  strongly  l^o  me,"  he  said.  "He  came 
into  my  store  for  some  cigars  the  day  he 
come,  and  he  didn't  seem  much  to  like  Nan- 
tucket.  He'd  took  a  room  to  the  Spring 
field  House.  He's  kind  of  foreign  and  open- 
spoken,  you  know.  He  said  he  didn't  want 
to  stay  to  a  hotel,  when  he  came  to  Nan- 
tncket,  with  a  lot  of  tourists.  That's  what 
he  called  the  strangers." 

The  deacon  laughed  gently  as  he  made 
this  comment. 

"  Said  he'd  come  to  study  the  place  and 
inhabitants;  that  what  he  wanted  was  local 
coloring.  I've  been  a-kinder  pouderiu'  that 
term  ever  since.  Thought  he'd  go  back  to 
the  Continent  right  oif.  '  Now,'  says  I  "- 
the  deacon  was  warming  to  his  subject,  for 
Mrs.  Adams  had  stopped  working  and  re 
garded  him  with  deep  attention — "  says  I, 
'  don't  cross  the  bay  to-day,  it's  as  rugged  as 
fury ;  stay  a  few  days  and  you'll  shake 
down.  You  see,'  I  says,  '  this  is  a  corner 
grocery,  and  folks  drop  in  afternoons  and 
it's  real  social.  You're  welcome,'  I  says, '  to 


120 


come  in  and  get  weighed  as  many  times  a 
day 's  yon  want.'  He  seemed  kinder  pleased, 
and  then  be  wanted  me  to  recommend  him 
to  some  private  house,  in  a  quiet  street. 
where  he  could  take  a  room  ;  and  I  told  him 
about  you,  for  Eunice  said  you  was  thinking 
about  taking  a  boarder.  I'm  sorry  he  don't 
suit." 

He  paused  diplomatically.  Mrs.  Adams 
began  to  sew  again. 

"  Tain't  that  he  doesn't  suit,"  she  said. 
"  He's  talcing  enough  ;  but  it's  against  con 
science,  my  keepin'  him.  He's  a  godless, 
Sabbath  -breakiu'  man !" 

She  uttered  this  terrible  accusation  in  a 
calm,  dry  voice. 

"  You  don't  say !"  said  the  deacon,  breath 
lessly.  His  face  was  unaffectedly  regretful. 
"Yet,"  he  continued,  "he's  full  of  natural 
grace." 

"Natural  grace  ain't  goin'  to  help  a  man 
where  his  eternal  salvation  is  concerned.'' 
Mrs.  Adams  returned,  severely.  "You  km>\\- 
that,  deacon,  as  well  as  I  do." 

The  deacon  made  an  unwilling  movement 
of  assent  with  his  head.  "Yes,  we  are 
taught  so,"  he  said,  musingly  ;  "  and  yet  it 
seems  strange,  for  we  are  all  made  in  the 
image  of  God." 


121 


Mrs.  Adams  was  too  much  occupied  with 
her  own  thoughts  to  heed  him. 

"The  question  is,"  she  continued, 
"  whether,  as  the  wife  of  a  Presbyterian 
minister,  I  am  justified  in  keeping  him  in 
my  house."  ,. 

The  old  man  looked  distressed.  "  It's  a- 
question,  it's  a  question,"  he  said;  "but 
what  makes  you  think  he's — in  an  uuregen- 
erate  state  f" 

"  Plenty  of  things.  He  ain't  much  in  the 
habit  of  making  friends  with  strangers  ;  but 
after  he  came  I  told  him  that,  though  we 
wouldn't  vacate  the  sittin'-room  for  any  one, 
he  was  welcome  to  come  in  and  sit  and  play 
on  the  music.  I  do  say  he  makes  a  sight 
of  music  come  out  of  that  melodeon  ;  sounds 
like  the  organ  I  heard  when  I  was  to  Boston 
•with  Ephraim." 

"  Yes,"  nodded  the  old  man,  "I  remember 
your  mentioning  it  to  Lucilla  when  yon 
came  back  to  the  Island." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Adams,  "  Sundays  Dr. 
Otto  played  and  sang  same 's  other  days,  and 
such  music!  I  can't  liken  it  to  anything  I 
ever  heard.  It  sounded,  well — " 

"  French  ?"  suggested  the  deacon.  His  im 
agination  had  been  fired  by  the  widow's  elo 
quence,  and  the  word  came  patly  to  his  lips. 


122 


Mrs.  Adams  gave  his  eager,  simple  old 
face  a  sharp  look  over  her  glasses. 

"Persian,  more  likely,"  she  said,  shortly. 
"Heathenish,  anyhow.  I  soon  put  an  end 
to  that ;  but  that  ain't  all.  He  works  at  his 
paiutin's  all  day  Sundays.  He  let  fall  in 
conversation  that  he  makes  a  habit  of  at- 
tendin'  the  play.  In  Germany  he  had  a  seat 
regular,  same  as  we  have  a  pew  in  church. 
As  far  's  I  can  see  he  has  no  Bible.  The 
other  day  I  gave  him  Ephraim's  tract,  '  Go 
ing  to  the  Play,'  you  kuow."  The  elder 
nodded.  "  He  was  polite  enough  to  me 
about  it;  but  when  I  came  in  after,  he  was 
readin'  it,  and  as  far  as  I  could  make  out  he 
was  laughing.  It  just  showed  his  feelings 
on  sacred  subjects." 

A  look  of  helpless  distress  had  come  into 
the  deacon's  face. 

"What  does  Eunice  say  ?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  Eunice  always  looks  at  things  in 
a  high  kind  of  way.  When  I  spoke  to  her 
she  only  says,  'Mother,  perhaps  his  coinin' 
here  is  a  leadin'  of  Providence,  and  wo 
ought  not  to  bar  the  way.'  That  was  three 
weeks  ago.  I  don't  know  how  she  feels 
now." 

The  old  man  seemed  relieved.  "  Eunice 
ain't  likely  to  be  far  wrong  iu  such  matters. 


123 


The  things  of  God  are  spiritually  discerned, 
and  it  is  given  to  such  as  her  to  discern 
them."  He  rose  and  took  his  hat  from  the 
table.  "  I  must  be  goin'  .along."  He  shook 
hands  somewhat  limply  with  Mrs.  Adams, 
who  did  not  rise  from  the  chair.  "  You'd 
better  let  Eunice  Settle  that  matter."  His 
face  became  very  grave  and  tender.  "  En- 
nice  is  one  of  the  Elect,  as  I  said  before. 
It's  my  belief,  Mrs.  Adams,  that  the  Lord 
has  great  things  in  store  for  her." 

Mrs.  Adams  only  gave  him  another  scru 
tinizing  glance.  He  left  the  room,  and,  as 
he  let  himself  out  of  the  door,  she  resumed 
her  work,  only  calling  to  him, 

"  I'll  send  Lucilla  some  of  my  apple-but 
ter  ;  she  told  me  she  wa'u't  preservin'  this 
season ." 

The  back  porch  of  the  house  looked  out 
on  a  small  enclosure  of  sandy  grass.  There 
was  but  one  stunted  tree  and  no  flowers. 
The  gabled  end  of  a  neighboring  house, 
painted  a  dull  red,  jutted  out  beyond  the 
rickety  fence,  at  one  end  of  the  enclosure. 
Beyond  could  be  seen  the  windmill,  on  its 
mound,  and  the  green  moors.  The  atmos 
phere  was  so  clear  and  sparkling  that  it 
lent  an  actual  beauty  to  the  very  simple 
elements  which  made  up  this  scene. 


1-21 


In  the  porch  a  man  sat  before  his  easel, 
painting.  lie  had  evidently  intended  to 
paint  simply  the  gable  of  the  house,  with 
the  glimpse  of  the  windmill  and  (lie  moor 
beyond — but  Eunice  Adams  stood  at  a  table 
just  beyond  the  porch.  On  the  table  lay  a, 
pile  of.  rusty-yellow  and  red  apples,  which 
she  was  paring.  The  background  of  the 
red  house  threw  her  figure  into  relief,  and 
the  temptation  to  add  it  to  his  picture  was 
too  strong  for  Dr.  Julius  Otto.  He  had 
sketched  in  her  figure  hastily,  and  was 
working  carefully  on  the  face.  He  seemed 
to  be  about  thirty-five.  His  light-brown 
hair  grew  straight  up  from  his  forehead  in 
a  thick  mass.  His  moustache  swept  away 
from  his  mouth  in  a  bold  wave.  His  beard 
was  parted  in  the  Prussian  fashion,  and  he 
had  a  slightly  obstinate  mouth  and  chin. 
In  the  turn  of  his  head,  the  expression  of 
his  eyes,  in  his  whole  manner,  there  was  an 
enormous  naturalness  that  was  almost 
startling.  He  was  speaking  in  rapid,  lluent 
English,  with  a  marked  German  accent. 

"For  my  part,"  he  said,  "  I  am  glad  I  am 
going  to  Vienna.  I  have  been  five  years  in 
this  country,  and  it  has  treated  me  kindly. 
But  I  find  you  Americans  too  prejudiced,  too 
narrow.  Now,  if  you,  for  instance,  could 


shake  off  some  of  the  Puritanism  that  is 
blighting  your  life,  you  would  be  far  hap 
pier." 

He  threw  off  this  suggestion  in  a  half- 
teasing  manner,  yet  with  a  vivid  heartiness 
that  was  like  a  cordial. 

Eunice  remained  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  spoke  with  an  effort. 

"  It  is  not  always  necessary  to  be  happy." 

Her  face  was  one  of  those  we  sometimes 
see  in  New  England.  Her  forehead  was 
somewhat  high,  and  her  features  had  the 
same  regularity  that  in  her  mother  had 
hardened  into  rigidity.  Her  skin  was 
colorless,  and  her  dark  hair  was  twisted  iu 
a  heavy,  waveless  mass  at  the  back  of  her 
head.  Her  eyes  were  singularly  clear  gray, 
with  dark  lashes  and  eyebrows.  Her  face 
had  much  beauty  ;  but,  more  than  this,  it 
was  so  refined  and  spiritualized  by  some  in 
ward  experience  and  habitual  moral  lofti 
ness  that  it  made  a  vivid  impression  on 
those  who  saw  it  for  the  first  time.  The 
Nantucketers  were  accustomed  to  this  qual 
ity  in  her  face,  and  took  it  as  a  matter  of 
course ;  but  the  summer  visitors  who  met 
her  in  the  street  used  to  wonder  at  the 
strange,  exquisite  face,  afterwards  remem 
bering  its  transparent  lambency  of  expres- 


1-26 


siou  as  something  rarer  and  more  exquisite 
than  beauty. 

Dr.  Otto  received  her  remark  with  a  sort 
of  kindly  amusement. 

"Why,  if  you  please,  Miss  Enuice,  is  it 
not  necessary  to  be  happy  1" 

Eunice  looked  at  him  anxiously  as  ho 
bent  over  his  easel.  She  seemed  to  force 
herself  to  speak. 

"  Because,  if  we  do  our  duty,  it  makes  no 
difference  whether  we  are  happy  or  not. 
Things  may  seem  hard  here,  but  in  another 
life — "  She  stopped  suddenly,  catching  her 
breath  nervously. 

Dr.  Otto's  face  had  an  expression  of  half- 
pitying  protest. 

"All  very  well,"  he  said,  with  the  same- 
heartiness,  "  if  one  could  be  guaranteed  the 
second  lease.  But  you  know  wo  are  only 
sure  of  one  life !" 

He  laughed  good-hnmoredly  as  ho  spoke. 

The  girl's  face  only  became  slightly  paler. 
She  dropped  the  knife  and  apple  she  IK  Id 
in  her  hands. 

"  Do  not  say  that !"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  Every  one  can  be  sure.  You  do 
believe  that  ?" 

Her  voice  was  so  urgent  that  the  German 
spoke  with  more  seriousness. 


127 


"Really,  Miss  Eunice,  do  you  wish  me  to 
speak  the  truth  ?" 

"Yes,"  sbe  answered. 

"Well,  then,  I  will  tell  you  fraukly,  I 
have  loug  since  arranged  my  life  without 
reference  to  any  such  beliefs." 

"  How  can  you  live,  then  I"  Her  eyes 
dilated  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"  All  the  better,"  he  answered,  "  since 
I  have  ceased  to  support  or  torment  myself 
with  false  hopes  or  fears.  The  world  is 
•wide.  There  is  so  much  to  do,  so  much  to 
live  for,  that  there  is  more  than  scope  for 
the  largest  intelligence.  It  satisfies  me. 
If  I  complain  and  wish  for  more,  I  am  not 
worthy  to  have  standing-room.  Out  of  it, 
and  let  some  better  man  take  my  place ! 
But  I  have  not  come  to  that  yet.  It  is  true 
there  is  misery  and  suffering,  but  we  can 
all  help  each  other.  Let  us  do  our  duty. 
Yes — but  let  us  be  happy  also,  and  not 
starve  our  lives  as  you  do." 

Eunice  had  remained  motionless — then 
she  spoke  again  in  the  same  low  voice. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  no  hope 
of  immortality?" 

Otto  laughed. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Eunice,"  he  said,  gently, 
"  spend  six  months  in  a  dissecting-room, 


128 


and  your  ideas  of  life  aud  immortality  will 
undergo  a  startling  change." 

His  words  seemed  to  give  Eunice  a  mo 
mentary  insight  into  his  hahits  of  thought. 
Her  face  was  strangely  illuminated  as  she 
answered, 

"It  does  no  good  to  talk  about  it,  Dr. 
Otto.  It  is  not  in  my  power  that  you  shall 
or  shall  not  believe.  But  the  spirit  of  God 
is  stronger  than  the  mind  or  will  of  man. 
It  can  teach  you  aud  lead  you  as  I  can 
not,  as  your  own  understanding  cannot — 
whether  you  believe  it  or  not,  this  is 
true." 

At  any  other  moment  of  his  life  Otto 
would  have  looked  upon  such  "an  outburst 
as  a  pitiable  exhibition  of  superstition.  But 
perfect  sincerity  has  a  power  of  its  own, 
aud  he  was  strangely  impressed.  To  his 
surprise,  Eunice  suddenly  gathered  up  the 
basket  of  apples  and  went  rapidly  into  the 
house.  As  she  passed  him  he  saw  that 
tears  were  streaming  down  her  face.  Their 
talk  was  only  one  of  many,  but  none  had 
reached  this  point.  He  whistled  very  soft 
ly  to  himself,  and  then  went  on  painting  iu 
silence.  Dr.  Otto  had  little  instinctive 
reverence,  or,  as  he  would  have  expressed  it, 
no  superstitious;  but  ho  had  broad  sympa- 


thies  and  a  tender  heart.     He  began  to  re 
gret  having  spoken  so  frankly. 

At  meals  Eunice  first  served  her  mother 
and  their  guest,  and  then  took  her  own  seat 
at  the  table.  When  he  first  came  this  pro 
ceeding  was  highly  embarrassing  to  Otto. 
If  Eunice  had  been  less  educated  and  less  re 
fined,  it  would  not  have  seemed  so  incongru 
ous.  He  used  to  jump  up  from  his  seat  to 
assist  her;  but  he  found  that  this  was  only 
disturbing  to  both  Mrs.  Adams  and  her 
daughter,  and  he  now  submitted  with  a 
good  grace.  This  evening  Eunice  was  un 
usually  quiet.  Long  before  now  Otto  had 
learned  the  secret  of  waking  her  laughter. 
It  had  a  fresh,  unused  sweetness,  and  he 
learned  to  wait  for  this  sound  and  to  enjoy 
it  genuinely  when  it  came.  But  now  this 
pleasure  was  not  in  store  for  him.  The 
girl's  eyes  were  swollen  from  crying,  and 
her  manner  wras  full  of  the  dignity  of  a 
quiet  sorrow.  After  supper  Mrs.  Adams 
took  her  seat  in  the  rocking-chair  of  the 
living-room,  with  her  knitting.  Eunice  was 
clearing  away  the  dishes.  Otto,  who  had 
lingered  in  the  room,  spoke  suddenly  to  her. 

"Miss  Eunice,  I  am  afraid  my  thought 
less  remarks  this  afternoon  have  troubled 
you?" 
9 


-130 

She  made  no  reply,  but  stood  with  her 
eyes  cast  down.  He  went  on  with  his  usual 
fluency, 

"Even  if  one  lias  no  household  gods, 
one  should  not  try  to  knock  down  one's 
neighbor's.  I  have  no  desire  to  shake  your 
faith.  I  have  no  creed  to  offer  you  in  ex 
change  but  the  very  finite  one  I  proposed 
this  afternoon  "—he  broke  off — "in  fact,  I 
can  only  ask  you  to  forgive  me." 

She  looked  up  quietly,  and  he  saw  that, 
in  spite  of  her  reddened  eyes,  her  expression 
was  lofty  and  collected. 

"You  have  not  shaken  my  faith.  It  is 
only  terrible  to  know  that  you — that  any 
one  should  feel  as  you  do.  If  yon  were  ig 
norant,  it  -would  be  different " — she  stopped 
— "but  it  does  no  good  to  talk  about  it." 
She  took  a  dish  from  the  table  and  left  the 
room. 

Otto,  a  little  baffled,  went  into  his  own 
room  and  lighted  his  lamp.  Mrs.  Adams 
and  Eunice  had  arranged  this  room  with 
their  own  hands.  The  walls  were  white 
washed,  and  a  square  of  blue  and  gray 
ingrain  carpeting  covered  the  floor.  The 
drop-shades  were  of  thick  light-blue  paper, 
and  the  window-curtains  of  blue  and  white 
mosquito-netting,  looped  back  with  a  wide 


131 


strip  of  the  blue  paper  of 'which  the  shades 
were  made.  The  furniture  was  of  the  cheap 
est  painted  wood,  with  the  exception  of  a 
mahogany  bureau  with  small  brass  knobs. 

Above  the  looking-glass  hung  a  worsted- 
work  sampler,  framed,  and  covered  with 
glass.  There  was  an  inscription  thereon 
to  this  effect : 

"Mary  Folger  is  my  name, 
America  is  my  nation  ; 
Nantucket  is  my  dwelling-place, 
And  Christ  is  my  salvation." 

The  figure  of  the  German  was  in  curious 
contrast  to  the  air  of  humble  sanctity  which 
this  room  possessed.  He  looked  too  large 
for  its  small  proportions,  and  too  aggressive 
for  its  timid  propriety.  His  tweed  shoot 
ing-jacket  and  a  pair  of  muddy  corduroys 
sprawled  over  a  chair,  where  he  had  flung 
them  when  he  came  in  from  a  sketching  ex 
pedition  the  day  before.  His  portfolio  lay 
open  on  the  table,  and  lie  sat  down  by  it 
and  looked  at  his  sketches.  They  seemed 
to  him  monotonous — some  of  the  most  char 
acteristic  Nautucket  houses ;  one  or  two  of 
the  narrowest  and  crookedest  lanes ;  and 
the  rest  of  the  moors,  always  the  moors.  At 
sunset,  in  the  golden  haze  of  the  setting  sun ; 
at  twilight,  purpled  and  shadowy ;  at  dawn. 


132 


by  Tom  Nevei^s  Head,  the  brown  moor  and 
the  still  sea  reddened  with  the  flush  of  the 
morning. 

For  a  moment  they  brought  back  the 
perfect  reality  woven  into  his  mental  fibres 
by  the  tenderest  thoughts  of  his  life;  then 
they  seemed  only  faded  reflections.  He 
pushed  them  aside  almost  angrily. 

He  had  graduated  from  a  medical  college 
in  Berlin  as  a  physician  some  years  before ; 
but  after  a  couple  of  years  he  gave  up  his 
practice,  and  became  an  artist  from  sheer 
inability  to  keep  out  of  his  studio  when  he 
should  have  been  cultivating  the  good-will 
of  his  patients.  He  came  to  America,  and 
although  he  made  little  money,  his  artistic 
reputation  induced  his  friends  in  Germany 
to  secure  for  him  the  position  of  professor  of 
drawing  in  the  principal  art  school  of  Vieniin. 

He  was  to  sail  in  a  mouth  more,  and  had 
come  to  Nantucket  to  sketch,  as  well  as  for 
a  rest  before  sailing.  Now,  as  the  weeks 
passed,  Dr.  Otto  realized  that  he  was  pain 
fully  unwilling  to  go  away.  He  was  almost 
impatient  of  this  feeling,  yet  ho  could  not 
overcome  it.  The  remote  oddity  of  the 
place  and  people,  with  one  exception,  were 
repugnant  to  him.  The  fact  that  the  little 
island  was  sea-girt  and  thirty  miles  from 


133 


the  mainland  gave  him  a  sense  of  confine 
ment.  The  four  walls  of  his  room  seemed 
to  suffocate  him.  He  started  np  and  opened 
the  door  of  his  room.  The  chill  Septemher 
air  blew  in  at  the  open  hall  door. 

"I  shall  sail  tw,o  weeks  earlier,"  thought 
Otto,  "  and  go  to  Italy  for  a  fortnight  before 
going  to  Vienna." 

He  went  into  the  sitting-room.  It  was 
deserted.  He  heard  Mrs.  Adams  moving 
abont  in  the  kitchen.  Eunice  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  He  sat  down  at  the  open  melo- 
deon  and  played  and  sang  the  Mignon's  Lied 
of  Liszt. 

"Kennst  da  das  Land  wo  die  Citronen  bliih'u 
Im  dunkeln  Laub  die  Gold-Orangen  gluh'n  ?  " 

floated  out  through  the  open  door  into  a 
room  across  the  hall,  where  Eunice  Adams 
sat  at  a  table  piled  with  books  and  papers. 
She  was  correcting  the  children's  exercises 
for  the  next  day.  She  had  not  been  at  the 
Nantucket  high-school,  nor  had  the  run  of 
the  town  library,  for  nothing.  She  under 
stood  the  words  Otto  sang.  The  mellow, 
pleading  tones  seemed  to  curl  around  her 
heart  and  sink  into  it. 

"Kennst  dn  es  wohl? 

Dahin  !  Dahin !  mocht'  ich  mil  dir,  O  mein  Gelieb- 
ter,  zielm." 


134 


After  a  moment  she  got  up,  walked  firmly 
across  the  hall,  and  softly  closed  the  door  of 
the  sitting-room ;  and,  coming  back,  shut 
and  bolted  the  door  of  her  own  room.  lu 
the  slightly  built  house  the  music  still 
sounded,  but  she  bent  her  head  in  her  hands 
as  she  sat  by  the  table,  and  then  went  on 
slowly  and  patiently  with  her  task. 

Dr.  Otto  was  beginning  to  enjoy  thorough 
ly  his  own  music.  He  made  the  little  in 
strument  tremble  and  vibrate  and  give  forth 
grandly  the  rich  harmonies  of  the  song.  He 
sang  with  feeling,  with  soul.  Suddenly  he 
heard  the  door  shut  gently,  and  footsteps 
retreat  across  the  hall  and  the  shutting  of  a 
second  door.  He  sprang  from  his  chair. 

"Barbarians!"  he  muttered  in  German, 
"  they  do  not  even  appreciate  good  music." 

Then  he  laughed,  and,  shutting  the  rnelo- 
deon,  looked  at  his  watch  and  yawned — nine 
o'clock. 

Mrs.  Adams  put  out  the  light  in  the  din 
ing-room  and  looked  suspiciously  into  the 
sitting-room. 

"  Oh,  you  can  put  the  light  out  here,"  said 
Otto,  apologetically,  as  if  he  had  been  dis 
covered  in  a  crime 

"I  s'pose  I  might  as  well,"  said  Mrs.  Ad 
ams,  dryly.  "  It's  gettin'  late." 


135 


"Late!  O  ye  gods!"  murmured  Otto. 
He  went  down  the  passage  to  his  room 
aud  went  meekly  to  bed. 


II. 


Two  or  three  days  later  Otto  was  staud- 
ing  at  the  window  of  the  sitting-room.  As 
he  looked  down  the  road  he  saw  Eunice 
Adams  coming  towards  the  house  with  a 
young  man.  They  were  in  earnest  conver 
sation.  The  stranger  was  evidently  a  cler 
gyman,  from  his  provincially  clerical  dress 
and  white  cravat.  He  was  tall  and  slender, 
with  a  thin,  intellectual  face,  a  long  nose, 
and  meditative  blue  eyes.  Otto  saw  a  look 
of  deep  affection  and  respect  in  these  eyes 
as  .the  young  man  bent  them  on  Eunice. 
Otto  turned  abruptly  away  from  the  win 
dow,  and,  taking  his  hat  and  sketching  ma 
terials  from  the  table,  went  out  into  the 
hall,  meeting  Eunice  and  her  companion  as 
they  entered.  Eunice  looked  at  him  with 
vague  anxiety.  To  his  surprise  she  spoke 
to  him. 

"  Are  you  going  out,  Dr.  Otto  ?  Dinner 
will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes." 


130 


"  I  shall  not  be  at  home  to  dinner.  I  am 
going  out  to  sketch,"  he  replied. 

He  almost  brushed  by  the  young  clergy 
man,  who  stood  against  the  wall  of  the  nar 
row  hall  to  let  him  pass,  and  left  the  house. 
A  half  an  hour  later  his  cheeks  tingled  at 
the  recollection  of  his  childishness.  "  Block 
head!"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "thou  art 
not  a  boy,  why  shouldst  thou  care!"  and 
later,  "  Why  not  have  waited  and  found 
out—" 

Otto  managed  to  get  some  dinner  at  a 
farm-house  on  the  moors  that  day.  Some 
thing  seemed  to  be  dragging  him  back  to 
the  little  house  in  Vestal  Street,  but  he 
obstinately  prolonged  his  own  suspense. 
He  made  sketch  after  sketch,  painstaking 
and  laborious,  and  ended  by  destroying 
them  all. 

In  a  sort  of  inward  vision  he  had  seen  all 
day  the  figures  of  Eunice  and  the  young 
clergyman.  It  was  dark  when  he  reached 
the  town,  at  last,  worn  out  with  his  long 
struggle  with  himself.  The  moon  had  come 
out  and  bathed  the  still,  white  streets  with 
its  pure  light.  It  was  as  still  and  warm  as 
a  midsummer  night.  The  houses  looked 
blanker  than  ever  as  he  passed  them.  As 
lie  neared  the  Adams  house  he  saw  a  figure 


137 


approaching  him  ;  small,  ami  walking  with 
a  tremulous  step ;  his  head  was  uncovered, 
and  his  white  locks  floated  iu  a  silver  aure 
ole  as  he  came  towards  him.  He  held  a  tall 
buuch  of  white,  feathery  grasses  iu  his  hand, 
and  looked  not  unlike  an  elderly  Angel  of 
the  Annunciation.  It  was  Deacon  Swain. 
He  moved  his  hat  into  his  left  hand,  and 
held  out  his  right  in  greeting  to  the  young 
er  man.  His  face  shone  with  a  gentle  ra 
diance  as  he  looked  up  at  him. 

"A  beautiful  night,  doctor,"  he  said. 

Otto  assented.  The  old  man  looked  up 
at  the  night  sky. 

"  It  reminds  me  of  the  hymn  we  sang  last 
Sunday,"  he  said. 

"  'Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth ; 
And  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole.' 

"  It  seems  as  though  such  nights  as  this 
came  to  show  us  that  God's  mercy  to  man 
kind  is  as  boundless  as  His  universe."  He 
put  on  his  hat  as  he  ended.  "Good-night, 
doctor,"  he  said,  and  passed  on. 


138 


Otto's  footsteps  made  no  sound  on  the 
sandy  path  as  he  reached  the  house.  At 
the  gate  beyond  the  house,  which  led  iuto 
the  "  pasture,"  as  the  enclosure  was  called, 
stood  two  figures.  In  the  moonlight  Otto 
recognized  them  as  the  realization  of  his 
vision  that  day.  The  man  held  Eunice's 
hand  in  his,  and  she  looked  at  him  earnest 
ly.  Otto  stood  still  for  an  instant ;  then  he 
turned  quickly  aside,  and  going  up  the  three 
steps  which  led  to  the  door,  opened  it  and 
went  in.  Mrs.  Adams  confronted  him  in 
the  hall  with  a  startled  face. 

"How  you  scart  me!"  she  exclaimed. 
"  You  came  in  so  quiet.  There's  a  letter  for 
you  here,"  she  continued. 

She  led  the  way  into  the  sitting-room, 
and  Otto  followed. 

The  letter  was  a  brief  summons  from  the. 
directors  of  the  art  school,  requesting  him 
to  come  to  Vienna  to  begin  his  duties  at 
once.  As  he  stood  by  the  table  reading  the 
letter,  Mrs.  Adams  went  on  speaking.  Ev 
ery  word  she  saul  pierced  his  consciousness 
like  an  electric  shock. 

"It  was  a  pity  you  wa'n't  in  to-day.  .My 
nephew,  the  Rev.  Amos  Lathrop,  \vas  here- 
He  came  over  from  Wood's  Hull  for  tin  day. 
and  his  conversation  is  of  a  nature  to  im- 


139 


prove  the  most  hardened  person.  Deacon 
Swain  came  in  to  tea,  and  he  and  Amos  and 
Eunice  talked.  It  reminded  me  of  the  mil 
lennium.  Amos  planned  to  bring  his  wife 
•with  him,  but  she  couldn't  leave  the  chil 
dren." 

Mrs.  Adams  turned  to  go  out. 

"  Have  you  had  your  supper?"  she  added. 
"  Because,  if  you  haven't,  Eunice  saved  some 
for  you." 

She  left  the  room  without  waiting  for  a 
reply. 

Otto  stood  motionless  by  the  table  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  —  a  low,  happy  laugh.  He  went 
out  in  the  hall  to  the  open  door  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  A  figure  stood  in  the  moon 
light  near  the  porch.  It  was  Eunice.  He 
went  towards  her.  His  happiness  at  the 
sight  of  her  overflowed  in  his  eyes  and  whole 
expression.  In  the  moonlight  her  features 
had  an  ineffable  suavity  and  purity.  She 
spoke  to  him  gently. 

"  You  have  come  back.  I'm  sorry  you 
could  not  have  talked  to  my  cousin,  who 
has  been  here  all  day." 

Otto  almost  laughed  at  the  earnest  anxie 
ty  of  her  look  and  words.  What  were  the 
speculations  of  a  worn-out  theology  to  him 


140 


compared  with  the  reality  of  his  love?  It 
carried  him  on  like  a  great  tide.  Its  strength 
must  carry  Enuice  with  it. 

A  half -hour  later  Mrs.  Adams  was  sit 
ting  in  her  room,  reading  her  Bible,  when 
Eunice  came  and  stood  before  her.  Mrs. 
Adams  closed  her  Bible,  keeping  one  of  her 
'  fingers  between  the  pages  as  a  mark,  and 
looked  up  at  her  daughter.  Eunice  was 
very  pale,  and  her  manner  was  filled  with 
an  intense,  controlled  excitement. 

"  Well  f"  said  Mrs.  Adams,  calmly. 

"Mother,  Dr.  Otto  is  going  away." 

"  Well  f  "  said  Mrs.  Adams  again. 

Eunice  turned  her  head  away,  and  her 
voice  sank.  Her  mother  watched  her  with 
immovable  confidence. 

"  He  asked  me  to  marry  him  and  go  with 
him."  She  waited  a  moment,  and  went  on 
slowly  :  "  I  told  him  I  could  never  marry  an 
unbeliever;  and  more,  that  my  life  \vas  prom 
ised  for  another  service." 

Mrs.  Adams  opened  her  Bible  at  the  place 
where  her  finger  divided  the  pages.  She 
read  aloud  with  emphasis: 

"'No  man  having  put  his  hand  to  the 
plough  and  looking  back  is  fit  for  the  king 
dom  of  God.'"  She  turned  the  pages  and 


141 


read  again:  "'Be  ye  not  unequally  yoked 
together  with  unbelievers.'" 

"I  know,"  said  Eunice.  The  words  came 
with  a  deep  expiration  of  her  breath,  a  sigh 
that  was  like  a  renunciation  of  her  whole 
nature.  She  turned  away,  and  slowly  left 
the  room. 

The  next  morning  Otto  waked  late.  In 
spite  of  the  confident  spirit  of  mastery  in 
which  he  had  finally  fallen  asleep,  he  awoke 
with  a  feeling  of  overpowering  desolation, 
and  found  his  eyes  wet  with  tears,  a  thing 
which  was  so  novel  that  it  startled  him. 
The  rebuff  of  the  night  before  was  puz 
zling,  and  he  began  to  feel  that  there  might 
be  something  in  Eunice's  theology  which 
was  stronger  than  he,  stronger  than  herself. 
By  the  time  he  was  dressed  he  had  reason 
ed  away  his  fears.  It  was  Saturday,  and 
he  congratulated  himself,  with  a  sense  of 
triumph,  that  there  was  no  school  that 
day  or  the  next,  and  that  Eunice  would 
be  free.  He  found  h'is  breakfast  saved  for 
him  in  the  dining-room;  the  striped  cot 
ton  cloth  turned  back  at  one  end  and  his 
plate  laid  on  the  unpainted  wood.  Eunice 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Mrs.  Adams  came 
into  the  room.  He  was  not  in  a  mood  for 
finesse. 


14'2 


"  Mrs.  Adams,  where  is  Miss  Eunice  f"  he 
asked,  abruptly. 

Mrs.  Adams  looked  at  him  inscrutably. 

"  Eunice  is  over  to  Surfside,  to  my  sister 
Mrs.  Burdick's.  She's  goue  for  Sunday." 

On  Monday  Otto  was  going.  His  pride 
was  stuug,  and  he  made  his  preparations  to 
go  away.  If  the  desire  of  his  heart  was  to 
be  unfulfilled,  he  would  burn  his  ships  be 
hind  him.  He  would  go  without  seeing  Eu 
nice  again.  Twice  on  Sunday  he  watched 
Mrs.  Adams,  in  her  rusty  black  dress  and 
bonnet,  go  down  the  sandy  road  on  her  way 
to  church.  The  warm  weather  still  held, 
and  the  sun  shone  through  a  golden  Sep 
tember  haze.  In  spite  of  this  sunshine  in 
the  still,  darkened  house  and  glaring,  shad- 
owless  street,  life  and  hope  seemed  dead. 
Otto  thought  of  Eunice,  with  her  violin-soul 
waiting  for  the  strings  to  be  touched,  and 
then  of  Vestal  Street,  and  the  grammar- 
school — forever!  Why  should  such  things 
be  ?  Then  passion  and  hope  rushed  hack 
in  a  warm,  indignant  tide.  He  would  not 
give  her  up.  .  .  . 

The  last  rays  of  sunlight  bathed  the  sea. 
The  bronze  moors  were  laid  with  cloth  of 
gold.  At  the  western  horizon  the  sun's  own 


majesty  was  lost  in  a  blaze  of  transparent 
light. 

Eunice  Adams  stood  in  the  porch  of  her 
aunt's  house  with  Deacon  Swain.  His  box- 
cart  stood  before  the  house.  Eunice's  face 
was  turned  towards  the  sun,  but  she  did  not 
see  it.  The  light  touched  the  white  hair  of 
the  old  man  as  he  stood  before  her. 

He  held  her  hand  in  his. 

"  You  have  decided,  then.  The  Lord  has 
called  yon,  Eunice,"  he  said,  with  tremulous 
solemnity.  "  Thank  God  that  your  ears 
have  not  been  closed,  but,  like  Samuel,  you 
have  heard  and  answered  His  voice.  I  al 
ways  said  He  had  great  things  in  store  for 
you." 

He  turned  away,  and,  getting  into  his 
cart,  drove  away. 

Eunice  looked  out  on  the  sea,  rapt  in  a 
peace  from  which  there  seemed  no  recall. 
The  future  seemed  to  her  like  the  path  of 
light  from  the  setting  sun  on  the  Western 
sea — lonely,  perhaps,  but  clearly  defined, 
and  ending  in  a  glorious  infinity.  A  sound 
aroused  her.  She  looked  and  saw  Otto  stand 
ing  before  her.  To  see  him  there  was  like 
the  sound  of  a  loved  voice  calling  from  earth 
to  a  ransomed  soul  in  bliss. 

He  told  her  he  was  going  away  ;  that  he 


114 


must  speak  to  her  before  leaving.  He  spoke 
in  abrupt,  short  sentences,  almost  in  gasps. 
With  her  calm,  glorified  face  she  seemed  to 
be  slipping  away  from  him. 

"  What  is  the  use  ?"  said  Eunice,  slowly. 
"  Do  not  ask  me  to  listen." 

In  her  quiet  resistance  he  felt  the  hopeless 
ness  of  the  early  morning  stealing  over  him. 

He  began  to  speak  with  enforced  self- 
control. 

"  You  are  sacrificing  yourself — me — to 
some  principle — some  idea — which  has  no 
reasonable  foundation."  His  German  accent 
became  stronger  than  ever  as  he  rolled  out 
these  words.  "  Why  should  you  not  be 
happy  ?  You  are  young — 

"  I  am  twenty-eight,"  Eunice  interrupted 
with  mechanical  truth.  Her  lips  had  become 
very  white. 

"  It  is  cruel,"  Otto  began,  vehemently. 
He  stopped  abruptly. 

With  one  hand  he  had  grasped  the  post  of 
the  porch  ;  the  other  hung  at  his  side.  He 
turned  away  and  looked  out  over  the  sea. 
The  glory  had  faded,  and  there  was  only  a 
gray  expanse  of  water. 

"  I  have  made  a  mistake,"  he  said,  heavi 
ly  ;  "  I  thought  perhaps  you  loved  me  a  lit 
tle." 


Eunice  stood  with  her  hands  clasped 
tightly,  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  face.  She  sud 
denly  caught  the  hand  that  hung  by  his  side 
and  pressed  it  against  her  heart,  and  then 
raised  it  to  her  lips.  In  her  face  was  an 
agony  of  love  and  renunciation . 

"  You  don't  understand,"  she  murmured  ; 
"I  must  do  what  is  right."  She  seemed 
about  to  say  more,  but  before  she  could  do 
so  a  third  person  came  from  the  house  into 
the  porch — a  middle-aged  woman,  sallow 
and  dark-eyed.  She  looked  sharply  at  Eu 
nice  and  Otto. 

"Won't  you  ask  yer  company  into  the 
house,  Eunice  ?"  she  said,  reproachfully. 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Eunice,"  she  said,  faintly. 
"  This  is  mother's  boarder — Dr.  Otto — please 
excuse  me,  I  do  not  feel  well.'' 

She  left  them,  and,  going  into  the  house, 
went  wearily  up  the  narrow  stairs  to  her 
room. 

"Come  in  and  take  a  seat,  doctor,"  said 
Mrs.  Burdick. 

Otto  waited  ten  minutes  while  Mrs.  Bur- 
dick  subjected  him  to  a  cross-questioning; 
at  the  end  of  it  she  decided  there  was 
"  something  between  "  Eunice  and  "  doctor." 
Then  at  Otto's  request  she  went  to  call  her 
niece.  After  a  few  minutes  she  came  back 
10 


146 


with  a  message  tbat  her  niece  was  not 
well,  and  was  sorry  she  could  not  see  him 
again. 

"  I  s'pose  you'd  like  to  know  about  Eu 
nice's  plans,  doctor,"  she  said  ;  "  I  could  tell 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Burdick,  peering  sharply  at 
him  in  the  dim  light. 

But  Dr.  Otto  seemed  iu  no  mood  for  listen 
ing,  and  after  a  brief  good-night  he  walk 
ed  away  over  the  darkening  moors.  From 
a  window  iu  the  farm-house  some  one  watch 
ed  him  through  blinding  tears.  The  next 
morning  he  had  left  Nuutncket. 

It  was  curious  that,  after  a  month  of  rus 
ticating,  Dr.  Otto  should  have  been  seized 
with  a  low,  nervous  fever.  Instead  of  sail 
ing  for  Germauy  he  remained  with  an  artist 
friend,  who  took  care  of  him  until  he  was 
well  enough  to  go  out  again.  It  was  Friday, 
three  weeks  after  he  had  left  Nautucket ;  his 
passage  in  a  German  steamer  was  taken  for 
the  following  Wednesday.  It  lias  been  said 
that  he  was  well  enough  to  go  out,  and  Sat 
urday  evening  found  him  again  in  Xan- 
tucket.  He  had  overrated  his  strength,  and 
when  he  arrived  at  the  hotel  his  head  swam 
and  throbbed  with  a  dizzy  weakness.  It  con 
quered  his  impulses,  and  he  was  obliged  to 


147 


go  to  bed  and  toss  about  all  night  and  all 
the  next  day,  half  blind  with  headache  and 
fever.  Towards  evening  the  pain  ebbed  away. 
He  dressed,  ordered  a  cup  of  hot  coffee, 
drank  it.  and  felt  that  his  nerves  were  steady 
once  more.  He  waited  until  he  knew  that 
the  Adams's  supper-hour  was  past,  aucl  then 
took  a  carriage  and  drove  to  Vestal  Street. 
The  church-bells  were  ringing  for  evening 
service  as  he  drove  through  the  dark  streets. 
The  sparkling  October  air  refreshed  him. 
When  he  reached  the  silent  house  he  got 
out  and  rang  the  bell,  his  heart  beatiug 
wildly.  There  was  no  answer ;  he  rang  again, 
and  waited  with  a  vague  apprehension.  The 
driver  suggested  that  "perhaps  the  folks  was 
to  evening  church."  Otto  smiled  at  his  for 
ge  tf ulness.  He  would  drive  to  the  church 
and  wait  in  the  last  pew  until  Eunice  came 
out,  and  then — 

When  he  reached  the  church  Otto  dismiss 
ed  the  carriage  and  slipped  silently  into  the 
last  pew.  The  lights  at  the  back  were  dim. 
The  sermon  was  just  ending.  There  was  per 
fect  stillness  except  a  single  voice.  This 
voice  gave  Otto  a  strauge  thrill.  He  thought 
he  was  dreaming.  Eunice  Adams  stood  in 
the  pulpit  speaking  in  alow  tone  of  entreaty, 
a  slight  figure  in  a  black  dress.  Her  face  was 


118 


pale,  but  it  was  illumined  as  from  an  in\\  ;u  d 
radiance. 

Otto  only  received  a  bewildered  impres 
sion  of  the  self-forgetful  tenderness  of  her 
face  as  she  pleaded  with  the  listening  peo 
ple  before  her,  dedicating  her  life  to  the  mis 
sion  of  their  salvation.  She  ceased  speaking. 
and,  clasping  her  hands,  looked  upward. 
There  was  a  breathless  hush  ;  then  the  con 
gregation  bowed  their  heads  for  the  closing 
prayer.  In  the  rustle  of  the  bending  forms 
Otto  left  the  church.  His  brain  was  in  a  tur 
moil.  He  seemed  to  hear  in  the  air  around 
him  a  voice  saying,  "  Tour  God  is  not  my 
God,  nor  your  «•«//«  HII/  ways."  .  . 

He  made  no  effort  to  see  her  again. 

The  next  morning  Otto  sat  on  the  deck 
of  the  boat  as  it  steamed  out  of  the  Nan- 
tucket  harbor.  He  felt  strangely  weak  and 
quiet.  He  watched  the  gray  town,  throned 
like  a  queen  on  the  risiug  ground  of  the  isl 
and.  The  shore  became  blurred  as  the  boat 
travelled  silently  over  the  shining  water. 
The  town  sank  as  the  distance  from  it  be 
came  greater,  until  at  length  there  was  only 
a  faint  white  line  on  the  horizon  where  the 
blue  sea  met  the  blue  sky.  A  few  smoke- 
wreaths  shadowed  the  sky  above  flu-  phu-e 


149 


where  the  town  had  been.  At  length  they, 
too,  had  vanished.  Only  the  sea  glittered 
under  the  sun. 

A  sick  man  has  strange  fancies.  Had  the 
island  ever  been  there  ?  Perhaps,  like  Eu 
nice's  God,  the -island  —  Eunice  herself — 
were  dreams.  Yes,  but  Eunice  and  the  isl 
and  existed  although  he  could  not  see  them. 
Why  should  not  the  same  be  true  of  .  .  .  ? 
Eunice  seemed  cruel,  but  perhaps  they  would 
both  understand  some  day.  Pshaw !  the  light 
dazzled  his  eyes.  He  would  go  to  sleep.  Dr. 
Otto  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes  and  .slept; 
or,  at  least,  the  pilot,  who  sat  just  above 
him  in  his  little  house,  thought  he  did. 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST. 

BY  MRS.   ANNIE  TRUMBULL  SLOSSON. 

YES,  I  do  b'lieve  in  'em — iu  oue  of  'em, 
teuiierate.  An'  I  know  \vliy  you  ask  me  if 
I  do.  Somebody's  put  you  up  to  it,  so  's  yon 
can  make  me  tell  my  ghost  story.  Well, 
you're  welcome  to  that  if  you  want  it.  It's 
no  great  of  a  story,  but  it's  true;  an',  artor 
all,  that's  the  main  p'iut  iu  a  story — ghost 
or  no  gliost. 

Well,  I  s'pose  I'll  s'prise  yon  when  I  say 
it  all  happened  iu  New  York  city.  Seem' 
me  hero  iu  Kitt'ry,  an'  knowiu'  my  name's 
Jenness — a  real  Kitt'ry  an'  Portsmouth  an' 
Rye  name — why,  o'course  you'd  take  it  for 
granted  I'd  allers  lived  round  here,  an'  all 
my  happenin's  had  been  in  this  local'ty. 
Well,  you're  right  oue  way.  I  was  born 
about  here,  an'  come  of  good  old  Scata- 
qua  River  stock.  My  father  was  Androu- 
icus  Jeuuess,  born  an'  raised  in  Rye,  and 
the  fust  thing  I  rec'lect  we  was  liviir  in 


151 


Portsmouth,  ou  the  old  Odiorne's  P'int 
road.  i 

There  was  father  'u'  mother,  three  boys 
— Amos,  Ezry,  an'  Peleg — an'  me,  Mary  Ann, 
the  oldest  o'  the  family  an'  the  only  girl. 
It's  the  ghost  story  you  want  to  hear,  so  I 
ain't  goin'  to  bother  you  with  anything  else. 

But  that  time  I  lived  there  in  the  old  red 
house,  with  my  own  folks  round  me — 'pears 
to  me  now  the  only  time  I  did  ever  reely 
live.  We  was  pretty  well  to  do,  we  had  a 
good  home,  and  we  was  all  together.  Fa 
ther  was  a  good  man,  mother  the  very  best 
o'  women,  an'  I  was  dreffle  fond  on  'em. 
An'  the  boys,  they  was  just  rugged,  noisy, 
good-natur'd  chaps,  that  kep'  the  house 
lively  enough,  I  can  tell  you.  But  when  I 
was  nigh  on  to  twenty-five,  an'  the  boys  was 
twenty  an'  seventeen  an'  fifteen,  ifc  all  ended, 
that  life  in  the  old  red  house.  Father  an' 
my  three  laughiu',  high-sperrited,  pleasant- 
spoken  boys,  was  all  drownded  at  once,  one 
day  in  September.  They  went  out  in  a  sail 
boat,  a  storm  come  up — 'twas  the  bcginnin' 
of  the  line  gale — an'  their  boat  capsized  ; 
an'  them  that  went  out  rugged  an'  big  an' 
healthy,  laughiu'  back  at  ma  an'  me  as  we 
stood  at  the  door  to  see  'em  off,  was  fetched 
back  stiff  an'  wet  an'  cold,  an'  so  dreffle  still. 


152 


I  never 'd  seen  the  boys  still  afore  in  all  tlu-ir 
lives. 

Mother  never  held  up  her  head  arter  that 
day,  au'  afore  the  new  year  come  in  she'd 
follered  pa  an'  the  hoys.  It  left  me  dreffle 
lonesome.  You  couldn't  'a'  broke  up  a  t'um'ly 
in  all  that  section  that  'd  'a'  took  it  harder. 
For  we'd  allers  set  so  much  by  each  other, 
an'  done  ary  thing  we  could  to  keep  together 
an'  not  "be  sep'rated,  an'  there  we  was.  nil 
broke  up  at  once,  an'  the  old  house  nothin' 
now  but  a  dry  holler  shell.  I  didn't  want. 
o'  course,  to  rattle  round  in  it  longer'n  I 
could  help.  I  got  red  on  it 's  fast  as  I  could, 
an'  went  over  to  Rye.  I  kuowed  how  to 
work  an'  wa'n't  afraid  of  it,  an',  o'  course, 
the  more  I  had  to  do  just  then  the  better 
for  me.  For  I  was  stupid  an'  scared  an' 
sore  with  the  dreffle  trouble  that  come  on  me 
so  quick  an'  suddiu,  an'  I  was  so  terr'ble 
lonesome. 

Well,  I  s'pose  'twas  because  I'd  allers 
liked  boys,  an'  was  used  to  bavin'  'em  round, 
an'  because,  too,  o'  my  missiu'  my  own  boys 
so  bad,  that  I  got  a  place  at  fust  in  Mr. 
Sheaf's  school.  'Twas  a  boys'  school,  an' 
they  took  me  for  a  kind  of  house-keeper — 
to  see  to  things  generally.  'Twas  a  sort  of 
comfort — as  much  as  anything  in  this  world 


could  be  a  comfort — to  see  the  boys  an'  do 
for  'em.  I  had  a  little  place  to  myself  right 
off  the  school-room,  an'  there  I  used  to  do 
my  mendin'  an'  everything  I  could  contrive 
to  do  for  an  excuse  to  stay  right  there,  where 
I  could  see  an'  hear  them  boys.  'Twas  a 
kind  of  eddication  jest  to  hear  'em  go  over 
their  lessons — their  jography  an'  rethmetic 
an'  grammar — an'  partikly  their  readiu'  an' 
sayiu'  pieces.  Ev'ry  speakin'  day — Friday 
'twas — I  was  allers  on  hand,  never  losin'  a 
word,  an'  sometimes  I'd  practise  the  boys 
'forehand  till  they  knowed  their  pieces  per 
fect.  I  stayed  there  about  six  months,  an'  I 
hoped  I  could  stay  there  the  rest  o'  my  days. 
But  even  that  poor  comfort  had  to  be  took 
away ;  for  Mr.  Sheaf's  health  broke  down  ; 
he  give  up  the  school  an'  moved  away.  So 
I  lost  even  them  borrered  boys,  who'd  been 
in  a  sort  o'  way  helpiu'  to  fill  up  the  places 
o'  my  own.  An'  so  agin  I  was  left  terr'ble 
lonesome.  I  didn't  know  what  to  do,  nor 
care  much.  So,  when  I  had  an  opp'tunity 
to  go  to  New  York  I  took  it. 

'Twas  a  lady  who'd  had  a  boy  at  the  school, 
an'  had  been  there  herself  an'  seen  me.  Mis' 
Davis  she  was,  an'  she  writ  to  know  if  I'd 
come  on  to  stay  in  her  house  through  the 
summer,  an'  do  for  her  pa  while  she  an'  her 


children  was  off  to  the  country.  As  I  said 
afore,  I  didn't  tnnch  care  what  I  done,  I  was 
so  lonesome  an'  mis'rable ;  so  I  said  I'd  go. 

But  if  I'd  been  lonesome  afore,  I  \vas  a 
hnnderd  times  lonesomer  there.  I  never  'd 
been  in  a  big  city  afore,  an'  I'd  kind  <>' 
thought  'twould  be  folksy  an'  'livenin'  an' 
cheerful.  But  'twa'n't  a  mite  like  that. 
The  house  was  mostly  shet  up  an'  dark. 
Mr.  Rice — Mis'  Davis's  pa — was  off  all  day 
long,  took  his  dinner  an'  supper  to  a  tavern 
somewheres,  an'  was  only  to  home  to  sleep 
an'  eat  his  breakfast.  I  didn't  have  much 
of  anything  to  do.  I  had  a  big  down-stairs 
room  they  called  the  front  basement  to  set 
in.  It  had  two  windows  on  the  street,  but 
'twas  so  low  down  that  you  couldn't  see 
much  out  of  'em  without  screwin'  your  neck 
an'  peekin'  up.  There  was  lots  o'  folks 
passiu'  by  all  the  time,  but  you  couldn't 
scasly  see  anything  but  their  feet  an'  1<  us. 
An'  oh,  the  noise  o'  the  wagons  an'  cars !  It 
made  me  'most  crazy  at  first,  but  bimeby  I 
got  a  little  used  to  it.  But  I  thought  I 
should  jest  die  o'  homesickness.  How  I'd 
think  an'  think  an'  think  o'  the  old  days  an' 
the  old  house  on  the  Odiorne's  P'int  road! 
How  diff'rent  it  was  from  this  city  one! 
The  old  home  was  so  quiet  an'  still  outside, 


an'  so  noisy  an'  lively  in-doors;  an'  the  city 
house  was  so  noisy  an'  lively  out-doors,  an' 
so  dreffle  still  an'  quiet  inside. 

An'  'twas  right  there  in  the  front  base 
ment  o'  that  city  house  that  I  see  the  ghost. 
'Twa'n't  like  ary  other  ghost  I  ever  heerd  on. 
Them  I've  read  about  mostly  wore  white 
sheets,  an'  looked  drfeffle  skully  an'  bouy,  an' 
kind  o'  awful.  One  o'  that  sort  would  'a' 
scaret  me,  I  know;  but  this  one  — Avhy,  I 
never  felt  a  mite  scaret  from  the  very  fust. 
Fact  is,  I  never  knowed  'twas  a  ghost  for  a 
spell,  for  it  looked  like  a  boy,  jest  a  common, 
ord'nary  boy;  an'  'twas  a  speakin'  one.  I 
don't  mean  one  that  talked,  but  a  speakin' 
one  that  spoke  pieces. 

I  don't  think  I  smelt  pepp'mint  the  fust 
time  it  come.  I  don't  rec'lect  it  anyway, 
but  allers  arter  that  I  did.  I  was  settin'  in 
the  front  basement  when  it  come.  'Twas 
between  live  an'  six  in  the  arternoon,  light 
enough  still  out-doors,  but  kind  o'  dusky 
in  my  down -stairs  room.  I  wasn't  doin' 
anything  jest  then  but  settin'  in  my  chair 
an'  thinkiu'.  I  don't  know  what  'twas  ex- 
ackly  that  made  me  look  up  an'  across  the 
room,  but  I  done  it ;  an'  there,  staudin'  right 
near  the  table  an'  lookin'  at  me,  was  the 
ghost ;  though,  's  I  said  afore,  I  didn't  know 


156 


it  for  a  ghost  tbeii ;  it  looked  like  a  boy. 
But  he  wasn't  a  city  boy,  nor  like  any  one 
I'd  seen  for  a  long  spell.  He  was  about 
fourteen  or  fifteen,  I  should  think,  an'  he 
wa'u't  no  way  pretty  to  look  at,  but  I  liked 
him  from  the  fust  minute.  He  was  real 
freckled,  but  that  never  was  a  great  draw 
back  to  me ;  an'  he  had  kind  o'  light,  red- 
dish-yeller  hair,  not  very  slick,  but  mussy 
an'  rough  like.  His  eyes  was  whity-blue, 
an'  he  hadn't  much  in  the  way  o'  eye-wink 
ers  or  eyebrows.  An'  his  nose  was  kind  o' 
wide,  an'  jest  a  mask  o'  freckles,  like  a  tur 
key  egg.  So,  you  see,  he  wa'n't  much  to 
look  at  for  beauty,  but  I  took  to  him  right 
off.  I  knowed  he  was  from  the  country  's 
soon  as  I  see  him.  Any  one  could  tell  that. 
His  hands  was  red  an'  rough  an'  scratched, 
an'  he  had  warts.  Then  his  clothes  showed 
it  too.  You  could  see  in  a  jiffy  they  was 
home-made,  an'  cut  over  and  down  from  his 
pa's.  There  was  a  sort  o'  New  Hampshire 
look  about  him  too,  an'  I  felt  a  real  draw  in' 
to  him  right  off.  I  was  jest  a  mite  s'prised 
to  see  him  staudiu'  there,  for  I  hadn't  heerd 
a  knock  or  anything,  but  afore  I  could  speak 
an'  ask  him  what  he  wanted,  he  stepped  up 
in  front  o'  me,  an'  says,  sort  o'  quick  an'  ex 
cited  like, 


157 


"  Don't  you  want  to  bear  ine  speak  my 
piece?" 

An'  afore  I  had  time  to  say  that  yes,  bless 
bis  little  heart,  I  jest  would,  be  begun  : 

"My  name  is  Norvle;  on  the  crampin'  hills 
My  father  feeds  his  flock," 

an'  a  lot  more  about  bis  folks,  an'  all  so 
pretty  spoken  an'  nice.  When  he'd  done  he 
drawed  one  foot  up  to  t'other  an'  made  a 
bow,  real  polite,  an'  then  he  stood  stock-still 
agin.  O'  course  I  praised  him  up,  said  he'd 
spoke  bis  piece  beautiful,  an'  asked  him  if  he 
wouldn't  like  a  cooky.  I  got  up  an'  went 
to  the  pantry  to  get  some,  but  when  I  turned 
round  to  ask  him  if  he  liked  sugar  or  m'las- 
ses  best,  he'd  gone.  I  thought  'twas  pretty 
suddin,  but  then  I  s'posed  he  was  bashful, 
an'  had  took  that  way  o'  leavin'  to  save  talk 
an'  fuss.  I  looked  out  o'  the  winder  to  see 
if  he  was  round,  but  there  wa'u't  a  sign  on 
him,  an'  I  give  him  up.  An'  'twas  jest  then 
I  begun  to  smell  pepp'miut.  But  I  didn't 
put  the  two  things — the  boy  an'  the  pepp'- 
mint — together  then  ;  not  till  some  time 
arterwards. 

Well,  you  don't  know  how  it  chirked  me 
up,  that  little  visit.  To  be  sure,  it  had  been 
real  short  an'  uusat'sfact'ry.  He  hadn't  never 


158 


told  me  one  word  about  hisself — where  he 
come  from,  who  lie  was,  nor  anything.  But 
that  didn't  seem  to  make  no  difference  to 
me.  I  felt  's  if  I  knowed  him  real  well,  an' 
his  folks  afore  him  ;  an'  somehow,  too,  I  had 
afeelin'  that  he'd  come  agin,  an'  I'd  find  out 
all  I  wanted  to  about  him  an'  his  belongin's. 
But  thinkin'  about  him  an'  his  call  an'  all 
made  the  time  pass  real  quick,  an'  'twas  bed 
time  afore  I  knowed  it  —  the  fust  evenin' 
senee  I  come  there  that  I  hadn't  jest  longed 
for  nine,  an'  looked  at  the  clock  twenty  times 
an  hour. 

The  next  day  slipped  by  in  the  same  slip- 
pety  way,  for  I  was  goin'  over  in  my  mind 
what  he'd  done  an'  said,  an'  s'posiu'  an'  s'po- 
sin'  who  his  folks  was,  an'  all  that. 

About  the  same  time  o'  day,  towards  six 
o'clock  or  so,  I  set  down  in  the  same  place 
by  the  winder  an'  begun  to  watch  for  him. 
He  hadn't  said  he'd  come,  but  I  had  a  strong 
feelin'  inside  that  he  was  goin'  to.  An'  he 
did.  But  'twa'n't  out  o'  the  winder  I  see 
him.  For  I  begun  to  smell  a  strong  pepp'- 
minty  kind  o' smell  agin',  an'  I  turned  to  look 
up  at  the  shelf  where  I  kept  my  med'cines 
to  see  if  the  bottle  was  broke  or  the  stopple. 
out,  an'  —  there  stood  the  ghost.  Though 
even  then  I  never  dreamed  'twas  a  ghost. 


159 


I  thought  'twas  jest  a  boy.  He  was  stand- 
in'  across  the  room,  jest  where  I  fust  see  him, 
by  the  table,  an'  lookin'  straight  at  me.  An' 
afore  I  conlcl  say  a  word  he  started  right  for 
me,  an'  says,  lookin'  real  bright  an'  int'rest- 
ed,  "Don't  you  want  to  hear  me  speak  my 
piece  ?"  An'  off  h£  went  as  glib  as  could  be. 
I  can't,  for  the  life  o'  ine,  rec'lect  what  'twas 
he  spoke  that  time.  I  get  the  pieces  mixed 
somehow  them  days,  afore  the  time  come 
when  they  meant  somethiu',  an'  I  begun  to 
take  iu  their  rneauiu's.  Mebbe  'twas 

"At  midnight  when  the  sun  was  low," 
or  it  might  be 

"On  Linden  in  his  gardin  tent," 

for  I  know  he  spoke  them  some  time.  Ten- 
nerate  he  said  off  something.  An'  when  he'd 
done  he  drawed  up  his  foot  an'  bowed  real 
nice.  I  clapped  my  hands  an'  praised  him 
up,  an'  then  I  beguu  to  ask  questions.  I 
wanted  to  know  what  his  name  was,  where 
he  come  from,  who  his  folks  was,  how  he 
knowed  about  me,  why  he  come,  an'  lots  o' 
things.  He  stayed  quite  a  long  spell,  an'  I 
did  jest  enjoy  that  talk.  Biineby  I  went 
into  the  closet  to  get  something  to  show 


IfX) 


him,  an'  when  I  come  back,  he  was  gone 
agin.  TwaVt  till  some  time  arter  he'd  left 
that  I  rec'lected  that  though  it  seemed  's  if 
I'd  had  a  good  talk  with  him,  I'd  done  it  all 
my  own  self,  an'  he  never  'd  said  one  single 
word.  Nothin',  I  mean,  but  that  one  thing 
he  allers  said,  "  Don't  you  want  to  hear  me 
speak  my  piece  ?" 

An'  yet  somehow  I  kuowed  lots  more  about 
him  than  afore.  In  the  fust  place,  I'd  eome 
to  feel  cert'in  sure  his  name  was  Norvle.  an' 
that  he  wa'n't  only  speakin'  a  piece  about 
that,  but  meant  it  for  gospel  truth.  An' 
arter  that  I  never  thought  o'  him  by  any 
other  name.  An'  I  did  think  o'  him  lots. 
For  even  in  them  two  little  visits,  when  I'd 
done  most  o'  the  talk  myself,  I'd  got  dreffle 
fond  on  him.  Yon  know  I  allers  liked  boys, 
partikerly  boys  raised  in  the  country  iler>- 
tricks.  An'  up  to  this  time  an' quite  a  spell 
arterwards  I  never  guessed  he  was  anything 
but  a  boy,  jest  a  common,  ord'nary  boy. 
Well,  he  kept  comin'.  Every  single  arirr- 
noon,  jest  about  six  o'clock,  or  a  sperk  rar- 
lier  or  later,  I  begun  to  smell  a  sort  o'  pepp'- 
minty  smell,  an'  in  come  that  boy,  walked 
up  to  me,  with  his  eyes  all  shinin',  lookiu 
pleased  an'  sort  o'  excited,  au'  says,  "  Don't 
you  want  to  hear  me  speak  my  piece  !" 


101 


Then  he'd  speak.  They  was  diffreut  kinds 
o'  pieces;  some  was  verses  an'  some  wasn't. 
But  they  was  all  nice,  pretty  pieces.  There 
was  one  I  remember  abont  a  boy  standin'  on 
the  deck  of  a  ship  afire,  an'  how  he  stood 
an'  stood  an'  stood,  an'  wouldn't  set  down 
a  minute.  Another  r'lated  to  the  breakin' 
waves,  an'  how  they  dashed  up  real  high. 
An'  there  was  a  long  one  that  didn't  rhyme, 
about  Romans  an'  countrymen  an'  lovers; 
he  did  speak  that  jest  beautiful. 

Then  he'd  hold  out  one  arm  straight  an' 
tell  how  nobody  never  heerd  a  drum  nor  a 
fun'ral  note  the  time  they  buried  somebody 
in  a  awful  hurry.  Agin  he'd  start  off  speech- 
iflyiu'  about  its  bein'  a  real  question  arter  all 
whether  you  had'nt  better  be,  or  hadn't  bet 
ter  not  be.  That  one  seemed  to  be  a  kind  o' 
riddle;  not  much  sense  to  it.  An' there  was 
a  loud  one  where  he  jest  insisted  that  our 
chains  is  forged.  "  Their  clankin',"  he  says, 
"  may  be  heerd  on  the  plains  o'  Boston."  I 
b'lieve  'twas  in  that  one  he  kep'  a-sayin', 
"Let  it  come;  I  repeat  it,  sir,  let  it  come. 
Gentlemen  may  cry  peace,  peace,  but  there 
ain't  no  peace,'  an'  so  on.  Eeal  el'quent 
'twas,  I  hold. 

An'  I  growed  so  proud  o'  that  boy.  By 
this  time  I  knowed  a  good  deal  about  him, 
11 


162 


for  I'd  have  long  talks  with  him  'most  every 
day.  That  is,  I  thought  I  Avas  haviu'  long 
talks  with  him  ;  but  allers,  arter  he'd  goue, 
I'd  rec'lect  he  Iiadu't  really  said  anything. 
But  ten  iterate,  strange  as  it  seems,  I  did 
know  lots  more  about  him  every  time.  As 
I  said  afore,  his  name  was  Norvle.  His  folks 
was  plain  farmiu'  people.  You  know  he 
spoke  of  his  pa's  keepiu'  sheep  the  fust  time 
he  come.  An'  'twas  up  in  the  mountains 
they  lived  ;  prob'ly  somewheres  in  the  White 
Mountains,  this  State.  I  know  once  he  spoke 
o'  Couway  's  if  he  lived  round  there.  That: 
was  in  a  piece  about  there  bein' jest  seven 
children  in  their  fam'ly.  He  was  real  par- 
tikler  about  the  quantity,  an'  kep'  callin'  at 
tention  to  the  fact  that  there  was  exackly 
seven  ;  no  more,  no  less.  He  says, 

"  Two  of  us  at  Conway  dwells, 
An'  two  has  goue  to  sea"; 

ail'  he  went  oil  to  say, 

"  Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  layt>," 

(that  was  him  an'  another,  I  s'posc  now,  but 
still  says  he, 

"Seven  boys  an'  girls  is  we." 


I  was  sorry  be  hadn't  been  brougbfc  up 
near  tbe  water  as  my  boys  bad,  with  the 
great  big  sea  to  look  at  an'  sail  on.  No 
wonder  he  spoke  o'  the  crampin'  bills.  It 
allers  seemed  to  me  dreffle  crampin'  to  bo 
shut  np  among  tbe  hills  an'  away  from  tbe 
salt- water.  > 

An'  now  he  was  off  from  home  an'  real 
lonesome,  so  'twas  a  comfort  to  him  to 
come  over  an'  see  me,  a  plain,  self-respectin' 
countrywoman,  like  his  ma  an'  his  aunts. 
So  I  about  made  up  my  mind  to  take  charge 
on  him,  do  for  him,  an' — if  bis  folks  would 
let  me — sort  o'  adopt  him,  in  the  place  o'  my 
own  boys  layiu'  in  Portsmouth  graveyard. 

I  never  's  long  's  I  live  shall  forgit  the 
day  I  found  out  he  wa'n't  a  boy,  a  common, 
ord'nary  boy,  but  a  ghost.  He'd  jest  come 
in,  an'  was  sayin'  his  piece,  when  the  grocer 
come  to  the  door  with  some  things. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Norvle,"  I  says,  for  I 
did'nt  like  to  lose  a  word  of  his  speeches, 
I  liked  'em  all  so,  an'  I  went  to  the  door. 
But  as  I  opened  it  an'  let  the  man  in,  I 
beerd  the  boy  goin'  right  on  speakiu'.  So  I 
says  to  the  grocer  man,  in  a  kind  o'  whisper, 
beck'nin'  as  I  spoke,  "  Jest  come  in  an'  hear 
this  boy  !  "  For  I  was  real  proud  of  him,  ail7 
glad  o'  a  chance  to  show  him  off. 


164 


The  mau  looked  rather  s'prised,  but  ho 
fullered  me  in,  an'  we  both  stood  there  by 
the  door,  list'nin'  to  the  little  feller.  That 
is,  /  was  list'nin'  with  all  uiy  ears,  for  'twas 
one  o'  his  very  best,  about  England  may  's 
well  'tempt  a  dam  up  the  waters  o'  the  Nile 
with  bulrushes.  But  when  I  looked  round 
at  the  man,  smilin'  at  him  an'  noddin'  uiy 
head,  's  if  to  say,  "Ain't  he  smart?"  I  see 
he  wa'n't  'pearin'  to  hear  anything  'tall.  He 
was  lookin'  at  me,  an'  then  round,  an' 
seemiu'  so  dumfouudered. 

"  What's  the  matter  o'  you  f"  lie  says. 
"What's  up?" 

Norvle  was  jest  closiu'  then,  an'  I  waiu-d 
till  he'd  made  his  bow,  an'  theu  I  says  agin, 
"  Wait  a  minute,  Norvlo,  an'  then  we'll  have 
our  talk."  Then  I  turned  round  to  the 
grocer,  an'  I  says,  "Don't  he  speak  fust- 
rate  ?" 

"  What  you  talkiu'  about  ?"  says  he. 
"Got  a  sunstroke  ?" 

Somehow  I  knowed  all  at  once  that  he 
wa'n't  foolin',  an'  that  he  didn't  see  nor  hear 
what  I  see  an'  hear  so  plain,  so  plain.  An' 
I  knowed  more'n  that,  for  that  one  little 
thing  opened  my  eyes  that  I  jest  wouldn't 
open  till  then,  an'  I  couldn't  shet  'em  agin. 
I  felt  queer  an'  dizzy,  my  head  swum,  an'  I 


put  out  my  hands  to  keep  from  fallin'.  The 
man  stiddied  me,  helped  me  into  my  chair, 
fetched  me  some  water,  an'  I  was  well 
enough  arter  a  little  to  speak.  I  told  him 
I  felt  hetter,  an'  he  could  go ;  so  he  went 
away.  I  looked  for  Norvle,  hut  he  wasn't 
there.  There  was.,  jest  a  little  smell  o' 
pepp'mint  in  the  air,  but  the  hoy'd  gone.  I 
was  glad  lie  had,  for  I  wanted  to  be  all 
alone  fora  spell. 

Well,  you  can't  understand  anything 
about  what  I  went  through  then  ;  nobody 
can.  To  folks  I'm  jest  a  queer  old  woman 
who  tells  a  com'cal  ghost  story  out  of  her 
stupid  old  head.  It  wa'n't  very  com'cal  to 
me  that  day.  For  I'd  got  so  fond  o'  that 
boy.  I  allers  liked  'em  ;  au'  I'd  lost  all  I 
ever  had.  An'  now  this  one  had  come  to 
me  when  I  was  so  lonesome  an'  low  in  my 
mind,  an'  I'd  gone  an'  took  him  right  into 
my  heart.  An'  he  wa'n't  a  boy  at  all,  but  a 
ghost !  That  meant  so  much.  Queer  's  it 
seems,  the  fnst  thought  that  struck  me  was 
this  :  he  wa'u't  he  or  Jiim,  but  jest  it.  Then 
I  remembered  how  I'd  planned  some  new 
clothes  for  him.  But  ghosts  don't  wear  out 
their  clothes.  An'  I'd  meant — if  his  folks 
would  let  me — to  adopt  him ;  bring  him  up 
like  my  own.  How  ever  could  I  adopt  a 


166 


ghost?  Wa'u't  it  impossible?  Come  to 
think  o'  it,  could  I  have  dealin's  iu  any  way 
with  a  ghost  ?  We'd  allers  been  a  re- 
spect'ble  faiu'ly ;  none  more  so  in  all  New 
Hampshire  ;  a  religious  fam'Iy  too,  orth'dox, 
every  single  one.  Never,  's  fur  's  I'd  hecrd, 
was  there  a  ghost  of  any  kind  mixed  up 
with  ary  branch  o'  the  Jennesses  for  gen'ra- 
tions.  To  be  sure,  there  was  a  story  of  one 
that  appeared  to  the  Fosses,  connected  by 
marriage  with  the  Jenuesses,  'way  back  fifty 
years  or  more.  But  that  one  never  showed 
itself;  'twas  only  a  sort  o'  weepin'  an' 
groanin'  au'  complainin'  noise  goin'  through 
the  house  at  night.  An'  they  never  encour 
aged  it  a  mite,  but  sent  for  old  Parson 
Williams  an'  had  him  pray  at  it  till  it  cleared 
out.  Then  they  aired  the  house  thorough 
ly,  an'  never  had  a  sign  of  it  agin.  But 
here  was  I  talkin'  with  one,  'sociatin'  with 
it,  gettin'  fond  on  it,  an'  really  talkin'  of 
adoptin'  it.  What  was  I  goin'  to  do  ?  What 
was  I  goin'  not  to  do?  Over  an'  over  in  my 
mind  I  went  at  that,  an'  little  sleep  I  got 
that  night,  I  tell  you.  As  I  said  afore,  we 
was  brought  up  in  a  pious  fam'Iy,  an'  my 
religion,  small  's  it  was  to  what  it  oughter 
been,  had  brought  me  through  all  my 
troubles  so  fur,  as  nothin'  else  could  'a' 


167 


done.  So  I  prayed,  a  good  deal  that  night, 
an'  read  my  Bible  lots.  An'  bimeby — 'most 
mornin'  'twas — I  begun  to  git  red  o'  that 
whirlin',  scaret  kind  o'  thinkin',  an'  to  look 
at  things  stiddier  an'  easier.  Mebbe  'twas 
the  prayin' ;  anyway  I  got  all  o'  a  suddiu  so 
's  to  see  the  matter  reasonable  an'  cipher  it 
out  plain  for  myself.  'Twas  about  this  way 
I  went  at  it.  Fust  place  I  says  to  myself: 
"What's  a  ghost,  anyway?  Why,  it's  a 
sperrit.  An'  what's  a  sperrit?  Why,  it's  a 
soul.  Well,  there  ain't  no  harm  in  a  soul; 
we've  all  got  'em.  But  then,"  thinks  I  to 
myself,  "  what's  this  soul  doin'  here  ? 
Where's  it  been  sence  the  boy  died  ?"  Well, 
you  see,  I  knowed  tod  much  about  heaven, 
from  Scripter  au'  sermons  an'  all,  to  think 
that  a  soul  that  once  got  there  would  leave 
it  to  traipse  round  here  agin  an'  speak 
pieces.  So  I  had  to  feel  cert'in  it  hadn't 
ever  gpt  to  heaven  'tall.  An'  as  for  the 
other  place — why,  you  never,  never  in  the 
world,  could  'a'  made  me  b'lieve  that  Norvle 
had  been  there.  He  wa'n't  that  kind,  I 
knowed.  'Twasn't  jest  because  I'd  got  so 
fond  o'  him,  but  I  felt  sure,  sure,  sure  that 
he'd  never  been  there,  in  that  awful  stiff  rin' 
an' sin.  He'd 'a' showed  it  if  he  had.  Now 
you  see  I  was  orth'dox,  an'  my  folks  afore 


1C8 


me,  an'  I'd  never  even  heerd  that  any  one 
thought  there  might  be  another  place  be 
sides  them  two  local'ties.  Sence  then  I've 
read  somewheres  that  there  is  sexes  wlm 
b'lieve  that,  but  I'd  never  heerd  a  hint  of  it 
then  But  seeiu'  that  he  hadn't  been  to  arv 
o'  them  two  places,  then  where  had  he  been, 
and  why  did  he  come  to  me?  Wheu  I  got 
to  that  p'iut  I  had  to  stop  short  agin,  an' 
bavin'  uothin'  better  to  do,  I  went  to  pray- 
in'.  An'  jest 's  the  mornin'  light  shone  into 
my  window  there  come  a  light  shinin'  right 
into  my  heart,  an'  I  see  it  all.  'Twas  this 
way.  Norvle  hadn't  been  fetched  up  by 
religions  folks.  For,  strange 's  it  may  seem, 
there's  people  like  that,  even  in  a  Christian 
land.  He'd  been  a  well-meanin'  boy,  an'  if 
he'd  ever  been  learnt  he'd  'a'  took  right  hold 
o'  religion,  an'  glad  enough  too.  But  ho 
lived  'way  off  in  the  mountains,  there  wa'n't, 
no  meetin'-house  within  miles,  an'  his  folks 
was  like  heathen.  Even  the  deestrick  school 
was  too  fur  off  for  him  to  go,  or  else  his  pa 
wouldn't  spare  him  to  'tend.  So  he'd  growed 
up  ign'ruut  of  all  he'd  oughter  know,  never 
seein'  a  Bible,  hearin'  a  sermon,  or  toucbin' 
a  cat'chism  in  all  his  life.  He'd  learnt  how 
to  read  somehow,  an'  up  in  the  garret  he'd 
come  acrost  a  book  o'  pieces  sech  as  boys 


109 


speak  to  school.  Au'  he'd  took  to  'em, 
studied  'em,  an'  got  so  lie  could  say  'em  all. 
But  lie  had  to  do  it  all  by  hisself.  Nobody 
ever  heerd  him  say  'em.  Nobody  would 
listen  when  he  tried  to  show  off.  That's 
terr'ble  hard  on  a  boy.  They  like  so  to  be 
praised  up  an'  noticed  when  they've  done 
anything.  Why,  Peleg,  the  youngest  o'  my 
three  boys,  you  know,  allers  set  so  by  my 
lookiu'  at  his  whittling  or  hearin'  him  sing, 
or  praisiu'  the  pictur's  he  drawed  oil  his 
slate.  But  bimeby  Norvle  died;  I  don't 
know  how.  I  never  was  able  to  find  that 
out ;  whether  'twas  o'  sickness  or  an  acci 
dent.  But  he  died  without  ever  haviu'  been 
grounded  in  the  right  things.  An' — oh,  don't 
you  see  it  now  ?  Don't  you  know  what 
come  to  me  that  early  moruin',  as  I  laid  cry- 
iu'  and  prayin'  in  my  bed  there?  He — I 
mean  it,  Norvle's  poor  little  ign'runt  soul — 
had  been  let  to  come  to  me  ;  me  that  loved 
boys  and  had  lost  'em  all.  Au'  I  was  to  be 
the  one  to  learn  it  what  he  hadn't  never  had 
a  chance  to  pick  up  afore  he  died.  So  I  see 
I  needn't  stop  beiu'  fond  o'  it,  but  go  on 
loviu'  it  harder  an'  harder,  till  I'd  loved  it 
right  straight  up  into  heaven,  where  it 
would  'a'  been  now  but  for  lack  o'  informa 
tion. 


170 


I  tell  you  that  was  a  solemn  day  to  ine.  I 
•was  happy  one  way,  sorry  another,  an'  I  felt 
snch  a  awful  responsibility.  I  tell  yon  'tain't 
many  that  has  sech  a  heft  put  on  'em  as  that. 
Jest  think  of  it!  the  hull  religions  trainin' 
of  a  ghost!  I  was  busy  all  day  preparin' 
for  it.  I  looked  up  all  my  books,  the  ones  I 
used  when  I  learnt  the  boys,  an'  the  Sab 
bath-school  ones.  An'  I  made  a  kind  o'  plan 
how  I  was  to  begin,  an'  how  long  'twould 
take  to  go  through  all  the  doctrines  an'  be 
liefs.  Our  folks  was  Congregationals,  an 
though  I  wa'n't  as  set  in  my  ways  about  my 
own  Church  as  some  be,  still,  as  Norvle 
didn't  seem  to  have  any  partikler  leanin1  to 
ary  other  belief,  I  meant  to  bring  him  up  as 
I'd  been  brought.  So  o'  course  I  had  to 
begin  with  the  fall,  an'  I  studied  on  that 
'most  all  day.  As  the  time  drawed  nigh  for 
the  visit  I  was  drcffle  worked  up.  Seemed 
'sif  I  couldn't  scasly  bear  it,  to  see  the  boy 
I'd  got  so  attached  to  an'  built  so  much  on,  an' 
know  that  he  wa'n't  a  boy  at  all,  but  a  ghost. 
I  was  settiu'  there,  in  my  old  seat  by  the 
window,  an'  for  quite  a  spell  arter  the  pepp- 
'miiit  scent  come  into  the  room  I  wouldn't 
turn  my  head.  Fact  is,  I  was  cryin'  so  't  I 
could  hardly  see  out  of  my  eyes.  But  b'mic- 
by  I  looked  round,  an',  jest 's  I  thought,  there 


171 


it  stood.  My  eyes  was  pretty  wet,  but  I 
winked  out  the  water  's  well 's  I  could.  An' 
's  soon  's  I  could  see  its  face  plain,  I  kuowed 
that  it  knowed  I  knowed.  It  didn't  have 
that  pleased,  shiuin'  look  in  its  eyes,  but  was 
sort  o'  doubtful  an'  scary.  It  stepped  slow 
an'  softly,  as  if  it  was  goin'  to  stop  every 
step,  an'  when  'twas  in  front  o'  me,  it  said, 
almost  in  a  whisper,  an'  so  mournful,  "  Don't 
you  want  to  bear  me  speak  my  piece?" 

I  brushed  the  water  out  o'  my  eyes  an' 
says,  real  hearty  an'  cordial,  "  Yes,  deary,' 
course  I  do." 

He  begun  in  sech  a  low,  shaky  voice  : 

"Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  airth, 
A  youth  to  fortiu  an'  to  fame  unknown." 

Poor  little  feller!  I  jest  ached  for  him, 
an'  my  throat  felt  all  swelled  up  's  if  Iliad 
the  quinsy.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  minute 
to  give  up  the  rest  o'  my  days,  if  it  took  that 
long,  to  savin'  that  little  soul  o'  Norvle's. 
An'  he  shouldn't  never  feel,  if  I  could  help 
it,  that  I  didn't  exackly  approve  o'  ghosts, 
or  thought  a  mite  less  o'  him  for  beiu'  one. 
Then  I  begun  my  religious  teachin'.  As  I 
said  afore,  my  startin'-p'int  was  the  fall. 
But  o'  course  I  had  to  allude  to  the  creation 
fust.  Adam  an'  Eve,  an'  all  that.  Then  I 


172 


learnt  him  the  verse  out  o'  the  New  Eng 
land  Primer  about  "  lu  Adam's  fall,1'  an' 
that  led  right  up,  you  see,  to  'riginal  sin, 
nat'ral  depravity,  an'  all  that  relates  to  them 
doctrines.  I  had  to  begin  jest  as  you  would 
with  a  baby,  you  see,  right  at  the  el'mentary 
things.  Then  I  took  the  Westminster  Short 
er,  an'  learnt  him  from  "man's  chief  end" 
to  the  decrees.  'Tvvas  a  short  lesson,  but  I 
didn't  want  to  tire  him  the  fust  time.  He 
seemed  real  iut'rested,  an'  I  forgot  for  a  min 
ute  he  was  a  ghost,  an'  I  says,  "  Norvle,  s'pose 
you  take  this  cat'chism  home  an' —  I 
stopped  right  off  short,  for  I  rec'lectrd  ho 
hadn't  got  any  home,  but  was  jest  a  wand'riif , 
ramblin',  uneasy  ghost.  An'  oh.  wlifiv  did 
he  sleep  nights?  Thinkin'  o'  that  made  the 
tears  come  agin,  an'  1  turned  away  to  sop 
'em  up.  Wheu  I  looked  round,  it  was 
gone. 

You  see  I  say  "it"  sometimes,  an' then 
agin  I  say  "him."  I  know  I'd  oughtcr  suv 
"  it  "  all  the  time  ;  but — well,  'way  down  in 
my  old  heart  it's  "  him  "  an'  "  he  "  allers,  an' 
he's  no  diffVnt  from  my  other  three  boys. 

I  was  a  mite  nervous  next  time.  I  wasn't 
quite  cert'in  I'd  gone  to  work  right  with  my 
lessons.  I'd  had  some  exper'ence  teacliin', 
what  with  my  own  boys  an'  a  Sabbath- 


173 


school  class.  But  how  did  I  know  but  a 
ghost's  mind  was  all  difFent,  an'  couldn't 
take  in  the  same  things  in  the  same  way  ? 
Then  lie  didn't  have  no  books,  an'  couldn't 
look  over  the  lesson  at  home.  So  mebbo — 
I  kep'  sayin'  to  myself — he  don't  remember 
a  single  word  about  Adam,  or  his  sin,  an' 
the  terr'ble  consequences.  But  I  needn't  'a' 
worried  ;  for  I  hadn't  hardly  time  to  answer 
that  same  old  question,  "  Don't  you  want  to 
hear  me  speak  my  piece  ?"  afore  he  started 
off: 

"Oh,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen ! 
Then  me  an'  you  an'  all  on  us  fell  down." 

Could  a  perfessor  in  the  the  'logical  sem- 
'nary  'a'  put  it  better?  The  real  cat'chism 
doctrine,  yon  see,  "  all  mankind  by  the  fall," 
an'  so  on.  So  I  begun  to  feel  encouraged. 
This  time  I  took  foreord'nation  an'  election, 
an'  easy  tilings  like  that.  Eternal  punish 
ment  goes  along  o'  that  lesson  by  rights,  but 
'twas  sech  a  pers'nal  subjeck  for  that  poor 
soul  that  I  skipped  it  that  once.  So  it  went 
on  day  arter  day.  I  didn't  allers  keep  to 
the  doctrines.  I  made  'lowances  for  Nor- 
vle's  briugiu'  up,  an'  had  more  iut'restin' 
things  now  an'  agin,  like  who  was  the  fust 
man,  the  strongest  man,  the  meekest  man, 


174 


an1  them.  An'  seeiu'  he  was  so  fond  o' 
pieces,  I  learnt  him  pretty  verses  out  o'  the 
New  England  Primer,  like 

"  Vashti  for  pride 
Was  set  aside," 

or 

"Elijah  hid, 
By  ravens  fed." 

He  was  so  tickled  with  that  piece  about 

"Good  children  must 
Fear  God  all  day, 
Parents  obey, 
No  false  thing  gay," 

an'  so  on.  An'  he  liked  about  John  Eog- 
ers  an'  Agur's  prayer,  an'  took  right  off  to 
that  advice  at  the  very  eeud  o'  the  Primer, 
by  the  late  rev'rent  an'  ven'rable  Mr.  Na- 
thau'el  Clap,  o'  Newport,  on  Rhode  Island. 
But  the  days  was  slippin'  by,  an' I  begun 
to  worry.  'Twas  September  now,  an'  my 
time  was  up  early  in  October,  for  the  fam'- 
ly  was  comiu'  home  then.  An'  go  'a  fast  '» 
I  could  I  hadn't  been  able  to  git  beyond 
"the  inis'ry  o' that  estate  whereinto  man 
fell"  in  the  cat'chisra,  an'  the  buildiu'  o' 
the  temple  in  the  Bible.  All  about  sin  an' 
punishment  an'  the  old  dispensation,  you 
see,  an'  never  a  speck  of  light  an'  hope  for 


175 


that  poor  sperrit.  For  o'  course  I  had  to  go 
reg'lar  an'  take  subjecks  as  they  come,  an' 
didn't  dast  skip  over  into  the  New  Test'- 
ment  comfort  till  its  turn  come.  I  was  in  a 
heap  o'  trouble  about  it,  when  all  of  a  sud- 
din  another  chance  was  given  me.  Old  Mr. 
Rice  come  to  me  with  a  letter  iu  his  hand, 
an'  asked  me  if  I  couldn't  be  induced  to  stay 
on  an'  take  care  o'  the  house  through  the 
winter.  Seems  that  one  o'  the  children — 
Mis'  Davis's,  I  mean — had  took  cold,  an'  its 
throat  or  lungs  or  something  was  weak.  So 
the  doctor  had  ordered  them  to  take  her 
'crost  the  water,  an'  they  was  goin'  right  oif, 
without  comin'  home  at  all.  Wasn't  it  won 
derful  ?  A  iut'position  o'  Providence,  cer- 
t'in  sure,  an'  I  thanked  the  Lord  on  my  bend 
ed  knees.  I  kep'  on  now  in  the  reg'lar  way, 
not  havin'  to  hurry,  giviu'  all  the  time  I 
wanted  to  the  doctrines.  For  there's  notli- 
in'  like  bein'  well  grounded  in  them.  Nor- 
vle  never  said  much,  but  he  showed  plain 
enough  that  he  took  'em  all  in,  by  the  ap- 
proprit  pieces  he  spoke  arter  each  lesson.  I 
wish  I  conld  rec'lect  'cm  all ;  they  was 
wonderful.  I  know  one  time  we  bad  free 
will,  an'  'twas  the  most  excitin'  occasion.  I 
got  so  worked  up  over  it,  showin'  how  'twas 
consistent  with  election  an'  foreord'uation, 


17C 


an'  argifyiu'  that  we  was  jest  as  free  to  pick 
an' choose  as — as — anybody.  An'  next  time 
he  up  an'  speaks,  "  Hard,  hard  iudeetl  was 
the  contest  for  freedom  aii'  the  struggle  for 
independence." 

Oh,  'twas  good  as  a  sermon!  An',  agin, 
arter  a  course  o'  lessons  on  the  power  o'  the 
devil  an'  how  to  resist  him,  he  spoke  that 
powerful  piece,  "  They  tell  us,  sir,  that  wo 
are  weak,  unable  to  scope  with  so  forni'dable 
a  advers'ry ;  but  when  shall  we  be  strong 
er?"  An'  how  he  did  go  on  about  "Shall 
we  'quire  the  means  o'  effectooal  resistance 
by  lyin'  s'pinely  on  our  backs  an'  huggin' 
the  d'lusive  phantom  o'  hope  ?"  an'  all  that. 
One  day  I  talked  very  strong  about  the  Cut  h- 
'Jics,  warned  him  ag'iust  the  Pope  o'  Rome, 
an'  forbid  him  ever  to  go  near  popish  folks. 
Next  time  ho  come  he  up  au'  spoke  a  piece 
about 

"Banished  from   Rome?     What's  banished  but  set 

free 
From  daily  contracts?" 

That  showed  his  views  about  the  Pope  plain 
enough,  I  think. 

Oh,  I  never  see  a  boy — let  alone  a  ghost 
— take  in  truths  like  him.  An'  it  done  me 
good  too.  I'd  got  a  little  rusty  on  them 


177 


doctrinal  b'liefs  myself,  au'  it  rubbed  up  my 
knowledge  wonderful.  I  studied  up  days, 
an'  could  hardly  wait  for  class-time  to  come  ; 
an'  jest 's  soon  's  I  had  the  fust  suift'  o'  pepp- 
'mint  arternoons,  I'd  be  ready  to  start  off. 
But  I'd  sillers  give  him  his  chance  fust,  an' 
I  growed  to  love  that  one  thing  lie  said  every 
time,  the  only  thing  I  ever  heerd  him  reely 
say,  "  Don't  you  want  to  hear  me  speak  my 
piece  ?"  It  seemed  to  mean  more  an'  more 
each  day,  an'  bimeby  was  'most  like  a  whole 
conversation.  Jest  from  that  one  remark  I 
begun  to  know  all  about  his  past  life  an'  do- 
in's,  his  folks,  his  home,  an'  all.  A  poor, 
empty,  neglected,  lonesome  life 'twas,  au'  my 
heart  ached  over  it  as  it  come  out  day  by 
day  in  our  talks.  To  think  o'  his  never hav- 
iu'  had  what  my  boys  had  so  much  on,  all 
their  days;  meetiu's,  Sabbath-schools,  cat'- 
chisms,preparat'ry  lectur's,  monthly  concerts, 
pruyer-meetin's ;  he  never  'd  had  one  o'  them 
blessed  privileges  in  his  hull  narrer  little  life. 
Well,  as  I  said,  I  enjoyed  the  doctrinal  teach- 
in',  the  Old  Test'meiit  an'  all;  but  I  was 
awful  glad  when  with  a  clear  conscience  I 
could  turn  over  the  leaf  an'  show  him  t'oth 
er  side.  He'd  been  gettin'  rather  low  in  his 
mind  lately,  an'  no  wonder.  For  I  hadn't 
felt  to  tell  him  anything  yet  but  about  our 
12 


dreffle  state  o'  sin,  the  punishment  we  de 
served,  an'  the  justice  o'  Him  who  could  give 
it  to  us.  To  be  sure,  I  got  him  to  the  p'int 
where  he  knowed  'twould  be  all  perfectly 
right,  consid'rin'  the  circumstances,  if  he 
should  be  sent  right  down  to  the  place,  as 
the  hymn  says, 

"Where  crooked  ways  o'  sinners  lend." 

He  was  resigned  to  it,  but  he  wa'u't  exackly 
glad,  an'  he  looked  rather  solemn.  So  I  was 
pleased  enough  when  I  begun  to  let  in  a 
mite  o'  sunshiniu'  an'  told  him  the  gospel 
story.  An'  I  declare  it  never  'd  meant  so 
much  to  me  myself,  church  member  as  I'd 
been  for  more'u  a  dozen  years,  as  when  I  be 
gun  to  tell  it  to  that  poor  little  ghost.  I 
begun  'way  at  the  very  begiimiu',  an'  it  was 
quite  a  spell  afore  he  see  what  was  comin'. 
He  thought  I  was  jest  givin'  an  account  of 
a  common,  ord'nary  boy.  I  see  that  was  the 
way  to  int'rest  him,  so  I  told  about  Him  as 
a  little  feller,  with  his  mother,  an'  in  the 
carpenter's  shop,  an'  rouud  the  water  an' 
the  shore  with  the  fishermen  an'  sailors.  I 
was  thinkiu'  o'  my  own  boys  on  the  salt 
water  at  Portsmouth  an'  Kitt'ry  when  I 
dwelt  so  on  that  part.  But  pretty  soon  I 
rec'lected  how  Norvle  was  fetched  up  on 


179 


risin'  ground,  so  I  told  about  His  beiu'  so 
foud  o'  the  hills,  goiu'  up  "into  a  monntin 
apart,"  as  the  Bible  says,  to  pray  an'  to 
preach,  or  to  set  there  alone.  An'  how  Nor- 
vle's  face  did  light  up  then,  an'  his  whity- 
blue  eyes  shine!  I  don't  doubt  ho  was 
thinkin'  o'  the  New  Hampshire  hills.  For 
crainpiu'  's  they  be,  folks  that  live  among 
'em  do  learn  to  love  'em  lots.  So  it  went 
on,  till  it  come  nigh  the  last  part  o'  the 
narr'tive.  No  need  for  me  to  remind  you  o' 
that.  I'd  kuowed  it  allers,  learnt  it  to  my 
Sabbath-school  scholars,  heerd  it  talked  an' 
preached  an'  sung  all  my  born  days,  but 
'twas  like  a  bran'-uew  thing  's  I  told  it  to 
Norvle,  an'  the  tears  jest  ran  down  my  face 
like  rain.  He  didn't  cry.  I  guess  ghosts 
never  does.  But  oh,  how  mournful  an'  sorry 
he  looked,  with  his  eyes  opened  wide  an' 
lookin'  straight  into  my  face,  an'  his  lips 
kind  o'  tremblin'!  For  quite  a  spell  now 
he'd  been  speakin'  diffent  sort  o'  pieces  — 
hymns  an'  sech.  An'  now  he  begun  to  say 
seen  beautiful  ones,  hymns  an'  psalms  I 
hadn't  even  thought  on  for  years.  Some  o' 
'em  I  learnt  afore  I  could  read,  from  hearin' 
mother  say  'em  over  'n'  over  to  me  as  I  set 
on  the  little  cricket  at  her  feet.  How  I  felt 
as  he'd  say,  soft  an'  gentle  like,  "  Don't  you 


180 


want  to  hear  me  speak  my  piece  t"  an'  then 
fuller  it  right  up  with  one  o'  them  sweet  old 
hymns  I  always  rec'lected  in  mother's  voice ! 
Oh,  I  loved  him  harder  'u'  harder  every  d;iy  ! 
He  was  jest 's  homely  's  ever,  jest 's  freckled, 
his  hair  jest 's  reddish-yeller  an'  mnssy,  hut 
he  looked  diff'ent,  somehow.  There  was  a 
kind  o'  rested,  quiet,  satisfied  look  come  on 
his  face  hy  spells  that  made  him  prettier  to 
look  at.  An'  bimeby  that  look  come  to  stay. 
I  couldn't  make  you  understand  'f  I  tried — 
an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  try — how  I  see  what  was 
happen  in'  in  that  soul.  But  I  did  see.  I 
kuowed  the  very  hour — the  minute  'most — 
when  he  see  the  hull  truth  an'  give  up  to  it. 
There  didn't  seem  to  be  any  powerful  con 
viction  o'  siu.  Mebbe  ghosts  dou't  need  to 
go  through  that.  P'r'aps  it's  their  bodies 
that  makes  that  work  so  strong  in  folks,  an' 
ghosts  'ain't  got  any  bodies.  So  'twas  a 
easy,  smooth  specie  o'  conversion,  an'  Nor  vie 
hisself  didn't  seem  to  know  when  it  hap 
pened.  He  kep'  comin'  jest  the  same,  alters 
askin'  his  little  question,  an'  speakin'  his 
piece.  An'  allers  there  come  with  him  that 
pepp'miuty  scent.  To  this  day  that  com 
mon,  ev'ry-day,  physicky  smell  brings  more 
things  back  to  me  than  even  cinnamon-roses 
or  day-lilies  like  them  in  the  old  garden  on 


the  Odiorne's  P'int  road.  I  went  on  all  the 
time  with  iny  teachin'.  I  knowed  Norvle 
was  all  right  iiow,  an'  safe  for  ever  'n'  ever. 
Bat  there's  plenty  o'  things  even  perfessors 
need  to  know,  an'  I  did  so  like  to  learn  him. 
'Twas  gettin'  past  the  middle  o'  December 
now.  One  day  I  walked  a  little  ways  down 
street  for  exercise  an'  fresh  air,  an'  all  to 
once  there  come  over  me  sech  a  strong  rec'- 
lection  o'  Portsmouth  woods.  I  didn't  know 
why  'twas  for  a  minute,  but  then  I  begun  to 
smell  a  piny,  woodsy  smell,  an'  I  see  right 
on  the  sidewalk  a  lot  o'  evergreens  —  pine 
an'  hemlock  an'  spruce.  Then  I  remembered 
that  Christmas  was  comiu'.  You  see,  pa  an' 
ma  had  allers  made  a  good  deal  o'  Christ 
mas.  Congregatiouals  in  old  times  never 
done  so.  I  know  pa  said  that  one  time  old 
Parson  Pickerin',  o'  Greenland,  sent  back  a 
turkey  that  grau'f'ther  Jenuess  give  him 
Christmas,  sayiu'  he'd  ruther  have  it  some 
other  time  than  on  a  popish  hollerday.  But 
we  was  fetched  up  to  keep  the  day.  Why, 
up  to  the  very  last  Christmas  o'  their  lives 
my  three  boys  hung  their  blue-yarn  stockin's 
up  by  the  fireplace,  though  Amos  was  past 
nineteen  then,  an'  Ezry  goin'  on  seventeen. 
So  'twas  a  time  full  o'  rec'lectin'  for  me. 
The  year  afore  I'd  jest  put  it  all  out  o'  my 


182 


head  an'  tried  to  forget  what  day  'twas. 
But  I  couldn't  forget  it  here.  'Twas  in  the 
air;  'twas  ev'ry where  you  went.  The  stores 
was  full  o'  playthings,  folks  was  tniipMii' 
through  the  streets  with  their  hands  au' 
arms  full  o'  bundles,  ev'ry  body  that  passed 
you  was  talkiu'  about  it,  an'  'twas  no  use 
tryin'  to  git  red  on  it.  It  made  me  choky 
an'  wat'ry-eyed  all  the  time,  an'  I  couldn't 
see  noMiin'  ary  blessed  minute  but  the  old 
•wood  fire  at  home,  with  the  big  yarn  stock- 
in's  hangin'  there.  But  one  day  arter  Nor- 
vle  had  left,  an'  the  pepp'mint  scent  hadn't 
quite  gone  out  o'  the  room,  I  begun  to  think 
why  I  couldn't  make  a  Christmas  for  him. 
Now  don't  laugh  at  me.  I  wa'n't  a  fool.  I 
knowed  's  well  's  you  do  that  ghosts  don't 
want  presents  or  keep  days.  But  I  \v:is  ><> 
lonesome,  an'  jest  hungry  for  a  stock  in'  to 
fill — a  boy's  stockin'.  "  So  why,"  I  says  to 
myself,  "shouldn't  I  make  b'lieve — 'play,' 
's  the  children  says — that  Norvle  wants  a 
real  old-fashioned  Christmas,  an'  I  can  give 
him  one  ?"  The  next  time  he  come  I  led 
up  to  the  subject  an'  found  out,  's  I  snspi- 
cioned,  that  he'd  never  heerd  o'  Christ  inns 
or  Santy  Clans  in  all  his  born  days.  So  I 
told  him  all  about  it,  an'  he  was  so  in t "rest 
ed.  Fust  I  told  him  whose  birthday  'twas, 


183 


o'  course,  an'  why  folks  kep'  it.  Then  I  told 
him  about  fam'lies  all  gettin'  together  at 
that  time,  an'  comin'  home  from  every- 
wheres,  to  be  with  their  own  folks.  An'  I 
went  on  about  hangin'  up  stockin's  an'  fillin' 
'em  with  presents.  "An'  now,  Norvle,"  I 
says,  "  I'm  goin'  to  make  a  real  old-fashioned 
Christmas  for  yon  this  year,  sech  as  we  used 
to  have  in  the  old  house ;  seeh  as  we  made 
for  Amos  an'  Ezry  an'  Peleg.  For,"  I  says, 
"  you've  been  a  real  good  boy  this  winter, 
an'  I  set  as  much  by  you  'most — p'r'aps  jest 
as  much — as  I  done  by  my  own  boys."  He 
looked  drcffle  tickled,  an'  so  'twas  settled. 
How  I  did  enjoy  gettin'  ready !  'Twa'n't  so 
easy  as  it  seems.  For  I'd  set  my  heart  on 
havin'  the  same  kind  o'  presents  as  we  used 
to  give  the  boys,  au'  they  wa'n't  plenty 
in  New  York  City.  The  stockin'  was  easy 
enough,  for  I  had  one  o'  Peleg's.  You  see, 
I  kind  o'  liked  to  have  some  o'  the  boys' 
tilings  about,  an'  I  had  some  o'  the  old  blue 
feetin'  layin'  on  my  stockin'  basket 's  if  they 
was  waitiu'  to  be  darned.  They  looked  nat'- 
ral  an'  good,  you  see.  Peleg  was  nigh  about 
Norvle's  size.  Then  I  wanted  a  partikler 
specie  o'  apple,  big  an'  red  an'  shiny ;  we 
called 'em  the  Boardman  reds.  I  found  some 
to  the  market  at  last.  They  didn't  exackly 


184 


look  like  the  old  kind;  but  the  man  said 
they  was,  he'd  jest  fetched  'eua  from  Ports 
mouth  hisself.  The  hick'ry-nuts  I  got  easy 
enough,  an'  the  maple  sugar.  I  was  goiu' 
to  get  some  pepp'mint  lozeugers,  for  my  boys 
all  thought  so  much  o'  them,  but  it  seemed 
too  pers'nal,  an'  I  give  'em  up.  I  got  a  big 
stick  o'  ball  lick'rish,  though  —  boys  allers 
like  that — an'  some  B'gundy  pitch  to  chew. 
Then  o'  course  there  must  be  a  jack-knife. 
I  found  jest  the  right  kind,  big,  with  a  black 
horn  handle  an'  two  blades.  I  set  up  late 
nights  an'  riz  early  to  knit  a  pair  o' red-yarn 
mittens,  like  Peleg's ;  they're  so  good  for 
suowballin',  you  know.  An'  I  wound  a  yarn 
ball,  an'  covered  it  with  leather.  I  had  a 
difFcnlt  time  findin'  the  fish-hooks  an'  sink 
ers,  for  I  hadn't  been  round  no  great  in  New 
York,  an'  there  ain't  no  general  store  there. 
But  I  found  'em  at  last.  Right  on  top  I  was 
going  to  put  Pely's  little  chunky,  leather- 
cover  Bible.  Mother  give  it  to  him  the  day 
he  jined  the  church,  an'  writ  his  name  in  her 
straight  up  an'  down  prim  handwritiu'.  I 
knowed  she  an'  him  both  would  be  will  in' 
it  should  go  to  this  poor  little  soul  the 
Scripters  meant  so  much  to,  an'  had  done  so 
much  for. 

The  New  York  greens  didn't  satisfy  me. 


185 


There  was  some  stuff  with  sicky  green  leaves 
aii'  white,  tallery-lookiu'  berries,  an'  some 
all  shinin'  an'  pricky,  with  red  fruit.  But 
they  didn't  look  nat'ral.  Bimeby  I  come 
acrost  some  ground-pine,  sech  as  growed  all 
through  the  wood  lot  behind  the  old  house, 
spranglin'  over  the  ground,  an'  some  juni 
per,  like  what  spread  amongst  the  rocks 
there,  with  its  little  black  berries  an'  sharp, 
scratchy  needles.  I  couldn't  get  any  black 
alder  nor  bittersweet  berries,  an'  had  to  do 
without  'em.  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  it 
was  to  me,  an'  my  poor  empty  heart  that 
had  ached  till  'twas  'most  numb,  to  get  that 
stockin'  ready.  Ev'ry  day  I  talked  Christ 
mas  to  Norvle,  never  lettin'  him  know,  o' 
course,  what  I  was  goin'  to  give  him,  but 
telliu'  all  about  diff'rent  Christmases  I'd 
knowed.  I  went  on  about  how  the  fam'ly 
was  allers  together,  an'  father  wore  his  best 
clothes  an'  set  to  the  head  o'  the  table,  an' 
mother  t'other  end,  an'  me  an'  the  boys  all 
there.  'Twas  nat'ral,  I  s'pose.  consid'rin' 
that  I  dwelt  on  that  part  on  it,  folks  all  bein1 
together  that  day,  lovin'  an'  doin'  for  their 
very  own.  Then  I  told  him  how  Christ 
mas  Eve  we  all  used  to  stand  together,  the 
boys  an'  me,  afore  we  went  to  bed,  an'  sing 
pa's  favrit  piece,  "  Home,  Sweet  Home."  I 


186 


carried  the  toon,  Peleg  sung  a  real  sweet  sec 
ond,  Ezry  Lad  the  high  part,  an'  Amos  the 
low.  How  it  fetched  it  all  back  to  tell  it 
over  to  him ! 

The  last  night  but,  one  come — the  twenty- 
third  'twas.  Norvle  had  looked  real  mourn 
ful -like  lately.  Ev'ry  time  I  spoke  o'  fa 
ther's  house,  or  fam'lies  gettin'  together  or 
goin'  home  for  Christmas,  I  see  he  looked 
kind  o'  sorry  an'  's  if  lie  wanted  somethin'. 
But  I  wouldn't  see  what  it  meant.  That 
arternoon,  though,  when  he'd  ast,  in  a  shaky, 
still  voice,  "  Don't  you  want  to  hear  me 
speak  my  piece  ?"  he  fullered  it  up  with  the 
dear  old  hymn  mother  whispered  part  of 
the  very  last  day  of  her  life — 

"Airth  has  engrossed  my  love  too  long, 
'Tis  time  to  lift  my  eyes." 

Ho  went  on  with  all  the  verses,  an'  when  he 
come  to 

"O  let  me  mount  to  join  their  son<;;,'' 

he  said  it  's  if  he  was  prayin'  to  me,  an'sech 
a  longin' sound  come  into  his  voice,  an' such 
a  longin'  look  into  his  eyes,  that  I  was  all 
goose-flesh,  an'  so  choky.  When  he'd  fin 
ished,  I  turned  away  to  get  my  handk'chief, 
an'  when  I  looked  back  agin  he  was  gone. 


187 


Well,  I  s'pose  you  see  now  what  I'd  got  to 
do,  and  what  my  plain  duty  was.  I  really 
had  knowed  it  all  along,  but  I'd  shet  my 
eyes  to  it  a  purpose  till  now  ;  but  I  couldn't 
no  longer.  That  poor  soul  o'  Norvle's  was 
regeu'rated,  saved  cert'iu  sure,  an'  what 
business  had  I  got -to  keep  it  down  here  any 
longer?  You  see  it  plain  enough,  but  no 
one  but  me  —  an'  One  other — knows  how 
much  it  meant  to  me  that  night.  "  Couldn't 
I,"  says  I  to  myself — "couldn't  I  keep  him 
only  one  day  longer,  jest  over  that  seas'n  o' 
Christmas,  so  hard,  so  terble  hard  to  bear 
without  him?  Anyway,  couldn't  I  have  him 
till  mornin',  an'  let  him  have  his  stockiu'  1 
When  he  was  goin'  to  have  sech  a  long,  long 
tima  up  there,  would  jest  one  day  more  down 
here  make  any  great  diff'renco  ?"  The  an 
swer  come  quick  enough.  "  Yes,  'twould ! 
He  b'longed  somewher's  else,  an'  I  must  send 
him  there,  an'  right  straight  off,  too,  even  if 
it  broke  my  heart  all  to  pieces  doin'  it." 

All  the  next  day  I  went  about  my  work 
very  softly.  It  seemed  like  the  day  o'  the 
boy's  fun'ral.  I'd  filled  the  stockin'  two 
days  afore — I  couldn't  wait — an'  there  it 
laid  in  my  room,  never,  never,  to  be  hung 
up,  all  bulgy  an'  onreg'lar  an'  knobby.  I 
knowed  what  ary  bulge  meant.  That  one 


188 


by  the  ankle  was  the  jack-knife,  an'  that 
queer  place  nigh,  the  knee  was  where  the 
stick  o'  lick'rish  had  got  crosswise  au'  poked 
'way  out  each  side.  There  was  one  Board- 
man  red  apple  roundin'  out  the  toe  like  a 
daruiii'  ball,  an'  right  in  the  top  was  Pely'a 
chunky  little  Bible  jest  showiu'  above  the 
ribbed  part.  I  didn't  empty  it.  Folks  will 
keep  sech  things,  you  know,  an'  it's  up  in 
my  bedroom  soiuewher's  now,  I  b'lieve. 

Well,  Christmas  Eve  come,  an'  come  quick 
— too  quick  for  me  that  time.  I'd  made  up 
my  mind  'twouldn't  never  do  to  let  Norvle 
see  how  I  felt.  I  had  a  good  deal  o'  Jeuness 
grit,  an'  I  called  it  all  up  now.  So,  when  he 
come  in,  I  was  jest  as  usual,  an'  smiled  at 
him  real  pleasant;  but  I  felt  'twouldu't  do 
to  wait  a  single  minute,  for  fear  I'd  break 
down,  so  afore  he  could  make  his  one  little 
remark,  for  the  fust  time  since  I  kno\vcd 
him,  I  begun  fust,  an'  ho  stood  still  an' 
listened, 

"Norvle,"  I  says,  speakin'  's  I  used  to  to 
the  boys'  playfellers  that  used  to  come  an' 
see  'em  an'  want  to  stay  on  an'  on — "  Norvle, 
I've  had  a  real  nice  visit  with  you.  I've 
enjoyed  your  comp'ny  lots,  an'  I  wish  I  could 
ask  you  to  stay  longer.  But  it's  Christmas 
Eve,  you  know,  an',  's  I've  often  told  you, 


189 


people  'd  ougbter  be  with  tbeir  own  folks 
to-uigbt.  You  know  now  wbere  your  folks 
is,  leastways  your  Fatber  an'  your  Elder 
Brother.  So,  I'm  dreffle  sorry  to  seem  im- 
perlite  an' send  yon  off,  but — wby,  this  bein' 
Christmas  Eve,  's  I  says  afore,  I  really  think 
— the  best  thing  for  you  to  do — is — to  go — 
Home  I"  I  got  it  out  somehow  ;  I  don't  see 
bow  I  done  it. 

Norvle  looked  right  at  me,  kind  o'  mouru- 
fle.  He  stood  stock-still,  an'  I  thought  he 
was  goin'  to  make  his  one  little  remark, 
but  he  didn't.  Jest 's  true  's  I  live,  that  boy 
opened  his  month  an'  begun  to  sing.  An' 
oh  !  what  do  you  suppose  he  sung  ?  "  Home, 
Sweet  Home !"  He'd  never  sung  afore :  I 
didn't  know  's  he  could;  but  his  voice  was 
like  a  wood-robin  now.  An'  in  a  minute, 
though  there  wa'n't  anybody  but  him  au' 
me  in  the  room,  seemed  's  if  I  heerd  some 
other  voices.  Norvle  carried  the  toon,  but 
I  heerd  a  real  sweet  second,  an'  then  a  high 
part  an'  a  low.  'Twas  jest  like  four  boys 
singin'  together.  An'  while  I  looked  at  him 
the  music  sounded  further  'n'  further  off,  till 
when  he  got  to  the  last  "  sweet — sweet — 
home,"  I  had  to  lean  'way  forward  to  ketch 
a  sound.  An'  when  it  stopped  —  why,  he 
stopped.  He  didn't  go  ;  he  jest  wasn't  there. 


Well,  I've  got  along  somehow.  Yon  do 
get  along  through  most  things,  hardy's  they 
be.  It's  more  'n  forty  year  now  sence  my 
ghost  story  happened,  an'  I'm  an  old  woman. 
I'm  failin'  lately  pretty  fast,  an'  it  makes 
me  think  a  good  deal  ahout  goin'  home  my 
self  to  jiue  pa  'u'  ma  'n'  the  boys.  I  might 
's  well  tell  yon  that  when  I  say  the  boys,  I 
mean  four  on  'em.  For,  b'sides  my  three, 
I'm  cert'iu  there's  goin'  to  be  another  one,  a 
little  chap  with  rough,  reddish-yeller  hair, 
an'  lots  o'  freckles.  Course  I  know  it's  all 
diffeut  up  there,  an' things  ain't  a  speck  like 
what  they  be  here ;  but  somehow  it  won't 
seem  exackly  nat'ral  if  that  little  feller  don't 
somewher's  in  the  course  o'  conv'satiou  bring 
in  that  favrit  remark  o'  his'n, 

"  Don't  you  want  to  hear  me  speak  my 
piece  F" 


MONSIEUR   ALCIBIADE. 

BY  CONSTANCE   CARY  HARRISON. 

A  TRANSPARENTLY  gentle  despot,  who 
might  have  been  led  by  the  finger-tip  of  the 
youngest  member  of  his  class,  was  M.  Alci- 
biade  de  St.  Pierre,  the  Belhaven  dancing- 
master,  who  gave  also  lessons  in  his  native 
tongue.  Nature  had  endowed  Mm  with  a 
stationary  scowl,  bis  moustaches  curled  wild 
ly,  and  he  bore  upon  the  brow  a  cicatrix 
that  caused  bis  pupils  to  liken  him  to  the 
swashbuckler  heroes  of  Dumas,  Scott,  or 
Cervantes.  In  outward  appearance  he  was 
Aramis,  Athos,  Porthos,  and  D'Artagnan  in 
one,  with  a  dash  of  Le  Balafre"  and  Don 
Quixote  thrown  in. 

Although  this  picturesque  personage  was 
a  comparative  new-comer  in  the  town,  the 
forebear  of  M.  Alcibiade  had  arrived  in 
America  as  pendant  to  an  expedition  sup 
plying  an  interesting  chapter  of  colonial 


192 


history.  Early  in  the  spring  of  1790  came 
into  port  at  Belhaven  a  party  of  French 
immigrants  engaged  by  Play  fair,  an  English 
agent,  and  De  Soissous,  a  nimble-tongned 
deceiver  of  bis  compatriots,  in  behalf  of  an 
enterprise  organized  in  New  England,  and 
styled  the  Ohio  Land  Company,  to  people 
the  wilderness  near  the  month  of  the  Ka- 
nawba  Eiver,  beyond  the  western  woods  of 
Virginia.  Among  the  travellers,  whose  weary 
hearts  beat  high  with  hope  as  they  touched 
the  shore  of  a  fancied  El  Dorado,  were  men 
skilled  in  the  exquisite  handicrafts  of  a  per 
fected  civilization.  Carvers  there  were  of 
furniture  like  wooden  lace-work  ;  beaters  of 
fine  brass  fashioned  into  rocaiUc  decorations; 
painters  of  shepherds  piping  to  their  fair, 
of  Cupids  turning  somersaults  in  chains  of 
roses  ;  harpsichord-tuners  ;  makers  of  gild 
ed  carnages;  varnishers  of  panels  that 
shone  like  mirrors;  disciples  of  Boule  and 
Martin;  confectioners;  perruqniers  —  and 
all,  by  a  fine  irony  of  fate,  bound  for  &  log- 
hut  settlement,  where  the  cry  of  savage 
beasts,  or  the  war-whoop  of  the  deadly  Ind 
ian,  was  to  be  their  nightly  lullaby. 

What  eloquence  had  prevailed  upon  these 
hapless  beings  to  believe  they  were  to  be 
the  founders  of  a  brave  new  Paris  in  tho 


193 


Western  Hemisphere,  their  wily  managers 
alone  could  tell.  The  first  instalment  of 
the  five  hundred  Frenchmen  said  to  have 
been  thus  deluded,  numbering  with  their 
wives  and  children  about  sixty,  after  much 
waiting  at  Belhaven,  their  souls  within  them 
vexed  by  homesickness  and  hope  deferred, 
split  up  into  variously  minded  factions. 
Some  pressed  on,  under  charge  of  a  long- 
delayed  messenger  of  the  company,  to  the 
frontier;  others  put  their  all  into  a  return 
passage  to  France ;  and  a  few  elected  to 
remain  and  try  their  fortunes  in  the  little 
town  which  in  those  days  had  no  end  of  am 
bitions  projects  for  future  greatness. 

One  of  these  prudent  ones  was  a  gay  old 
bachelor,  Alcibiade  St.  Pierre,  self-styled 
"  Hair-dresser  to  the  Court  of  France."  He 
opened  a  snug  little  shop,  where  the  gentry 
of  town  and  country  dropped  in  to  have 
their  perukes  dressed  and  tied,  to  be  shorn, 
perfumed,  and  shampooed,  after  the  latest 
fashions  in  vogue  before  Alcibiade  had  set 
sail  for  the  New  World.  He  was  sometimes 
sent  for  to  bleed,  or  to  apply  leeches,  and 
his  inille-fleurs  graces  impressed  the  towns 
people  mightily.  As  his  trade  increased, 
Alcibiade  was  called  on  to  lament  the  sad 
fortunes  of  his  fellow-immigrants.  Most  of 
13 


194 


those  who  became  frontiersmen  bad  suc 
cumbed  to  want  and  hardships,  had  met  the 
horrors  of  Indian  massacre,  or  had  gone 
under  iu  the  collapse  of  an  international 
speculation  that  carried  down  its  promoters 
in  the  crash.  From  those  who  returned  to 
France  had  come  dolorous  accounts  of  com 
motion  in  their  beloved  capital.  Decidedly, 
thought  M.  Alcibiade,  it  were  better  to  stag 
nate  in  Belhaven  than  be  forced  by  a  mob 
in  Paris  to  dress  the  head  of  some  former 
patron  upon  a  pike  ! 

Simple-minded,  kindly,  cheery  as  le  peM 
homme  gris,  the  little  hair-dresser  became  a 
great  favorite.  A  trig  Scotch  lassie,  daughter 
of  a  settler,  having  fallen  in  love  with  him, 
the  father  consented  to  the  match  on  con 
dition  that  the  intended  son-in-law  would 
renounce  his  French  patronymic  and  trans 
late  himself  into  plain  "A.Peters"  upon  his 
sign  and  in  his  official  signature.  And  thus 
it  came  to  pass  that,  instead  of  the  stylish 
frontispiece  so  flattering  to  town  pride,  there 
arose  above  the  shop  door  an  announcement 
remaining  there  until  its  blue  and  gold  Avon- 
dimmed  by  time, 

A.  PETERS, 

LADIES'  AND  GENTS'  HAIR-DRESSEH 
AND  BARBER. 


195 


And,  farther  down, 

WIGS   AND  TOUPETS. 

DISEASES   OF   THE   SCALP. 

ONGUENTS  AND  SCENTS. 

HAIK-POWDER,  ROUGE,  AND   PATCHES. 

ATTENDANCE   AT   HOUSE   FOU   BALLS   AND 

ItOUTS. 

Also, 

TEETH   PULLED,  AND   LIVELY  LEECHES 
CONSTANTLY  IN  STOCK. 

By  the  smiles  and  blushes  of  his  buxom 
bride  the  gallant  Alcibiade  considered  him 
self  well  paid  for  his  self-sacrifice.  Con 
tinuing  to  prosper,  he  gave  hostages  to  hair- 
dressing  in  the  shape  of  several  little  lads 
who  spoke  English  with  a  broad  Scotch  burr, 
French  not  at  all,  and,  later  in  life,  seized 
with  nostalgia,  emigrated  with  his  family  to 
end  his  days  on  the  soil  that  gave  him 
birth. 

Old  Mr.  Peters  had  become  a  figment  of 
tradition  in  the  town  when  his  grandson,  the 
present  Alcibiade,  appeared  upon  the  scene. 
To  the  ancestral  St.  Pierre  the  new  repre 
sentative  had  prefixed  a  patrician  "  de," 
vaguely  explained  as  having  been  resumed 


by  the  family  on  recovering  possession  of 
estates  lost  in  the  French  Revolution.  To 
plain  people  in  Belhaveu  this  prefix  was  in 
terpreted  to  be  an  initial  letter  D,  doing 
duty  for  a  middle  name  not  given.  As  for 
the  estates,  they  must  have  been  limited  ti> 
the  amount  aptly  if  not  elegantly  designated 
by  the  French  Commandant  Mann  in  tin- 
conference  with  the  Half-King  of  the  Six  Na 
tions,  recorded  by  Washington  in  1753,  when 
he  said,  "  Child,  you  talk  foolish ;  there  is  not 
so  much  laud  as  the  black  of  my  nail  yours." 

When  first  arrived  in  Belhaven,  the  poor 
Frenchman  was  indeed  in  a  pitiable  plight. 
The  attention  of  the  town  was  called  to  him 
by  certain  readings  and  recitations  in  his 
own  language,  advertised  to  be  given  in 
Lafayette  Hall. 

Gay  Berkeley,  who,  with  her  maiden  aunt 
Penelope,  had  gone  into  Mrs.  Dibble's  shop 
to  purchase  pens  and  writing-paper,  picked 
up  from  the  counter  a  document  in  manu 
script  that  excited  her  amused  curiosity.  It 
was  apparently  a  programme,  written  on 
foolscap  in  a  fine  copperplate  hand,  and  ex 
pressed  in  a  queer  French -English  that 
would  have  been  a  credit  to  the  manual 
known  to  fame  as  the  "  Portuguese  Gram 
mar  and  Guide  to  Polite  Conversation." 


197 


"On  my  arrival  from  the  France,  me  Alci- 
biade  de  St.  Pierre,  Chevalier  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor  and  ex-artist  of  the  theaters  of 
Paris,  do  make  hurry  to  throw  myself  at  the 
feet  of  illustrious  citizens  of  Belhaveu,  with 
a  presentment  special  of  selections  from  the 
immortal  Bacine'et  Corueille,  such  present 
ment  to  have  place  Hall  Lafayette,  the  Mon 
day  evening  to  follow.  Eeceive,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  my  distinguished  hommages  and 
impressed  salutations  your  very  humble  ser- 
viteur." 

"  What  in  the  world  is  this,  Mrs.  Dibble  '?" 
asked  the  young  lady,  with  dimpling  cheeks. 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Gay,  I  told  the  chevalier 
that  it  wouldn't  be  long  catchin'  the  eye  o' 
my  best  customers,"  responded  Mrs.  Dibble, 
complacently.  "  I  helped  him  out  a  bit  with 
the  words  he  didn't  know.  Dear  heart,  if  ifc 
wasn't  only  but  for  the  handwritin',  as  good 
as  Mr.  Johnson's  nephew  that  was  put  in 
state's  prison  for  forgery,  pore  fellow,  he 
that  used  to  practise  here  with  fine  nibs  an' 
broad  nibs,  writiu'  cards — spread  eagles  with 
your  name  in  curlicues  comin'  out  o'  their 
beaks — an'  true-lovers'  knots  an'  doves,  if 't 
was  a  new-married  pair.  Miss  Penelope, 
I'm  ashamed  to  say  I'm  clean  out  o'  quills  ; 


198 


but  old  Fanner  Berry  up  at  the  cross-roads, 
the  only  one  I  can  trust  to  pick  the  geese 
properly,  '11  bring  me  a  new  lot  to-morrow. 
Miss  Gay,  now,  she's  uew  school,  'u  uses 
steel — sand,  ma'am  ?  Yes  ;  of  course.  The 
usual  quantity  ?  Here's  sweet  note-paper, 
Miss  Gay,  just  received  from  Baltimore,  tho 
tip  o'  the  mode,  they  say  —  pale  pink  an' 
skim-milk  blue.  Plain  white,  did  you  say, 
miss?  Yes;  I've  some  cream -laid,  like 
you've  always  used  befo'.  If  you've  uothin' 
better  to  do,  ladies,  'twould  be  a  charity 
to  that  pore  Monnseor  to  patronize  his  per 
formance  a  Monday  night.  If  'twas  only 
for  old  times'  sake,  Miss  Penelope,  ma'am ; 
many's  the  head  he's  dressed — I  mean  his 
grandfather's  dressed — for  your  faiu'ly.  Yes; 
old  Mr.  Peters's  grandson,  as  I'm  alive, 
ma'am,  an'  the  entertainment  most  genteel. 
Selections  from  Corueel  an'  Raycine ;  fifty 
cents  for  adults,  twenty-five  for  children, 
an'  a  special  reduction  for  ladies'  schools. 
I  thought  there'd  be  a  chance  to  jjet  the 
young  gentlemen  from  Mr.  Penhallow's  Acad 
emy  ;  but  the  chevalier  kinder  shrivelled 
up  at  the  mention  o'  boys,  an'  said  'twas 
too  hard  to  keep  up  the  true  dignity  o' 
the  drama  when  they  was  present — Lord 
knows,  since  I  took  to  keepin'  sweet  stuff  in 


199 


t'other  winder,  I'm  up  to  the  ways  o'  boys. 
If  it's  ouly  a  penuy  horse-cake — comin'  back 
as  bold  as  brass,  with  the  hiud-legs  eat  off, 
declarin'  they's  found  a  dead  fly  instead  o' 
a  currant  for  the  eye,  an'  wautin'  their 
money  or  another  cake — " 

"Do  take  some  tickets,  Aunt  Pen,"  plead 
ed  Gay. 

"  Yon  know  my  sister  does  not  approve  of 
anything  theatrical,  my  love,"  whispered 
Aunt  Penelope.  "  Most  of  our  church-mem 
bers  think  with  her.  To  be  sure  dear  mam 
ma  used  often  to  tell  us  of  the  time  when  Gen 
eral  Washington  and  his  lady,  and  Miss  and 
Master  Custis,  drove  up  to  stop  two  nights 
at  grandpapa's,  expressly  to  attend  '  The 
Tragedy  of  Douglas,'  by  Mr.  Homo,  and  a 
play  called  '  The  Inconstant ;  or,  The  Way  to 
Win  Him.'  Mamma  saw  all  the  entertain 
ments  of  the  kind,  I  believe.  It  was  thought 
of  differently  in  those  days." 

"  Doctor  Falconer,"  ventured  Gay,  men 
tioning  an  eminent  divine,  "  quoted,  when 
he  last  drank  tea  with  us,  a  passage  from 
Racine.  And  these  are  ouly  recitations, 
auntie,  uo  acting  or  costumes." 

"  Oh,  in  that  case,"  said  Aunt  Penelope, 
taking  out  her  purse,  "you  may  give  me 
four  tickets,  Mrs.  Dibble,  and  you  may  in- 


200 


vite  two  members  of  your  French  class, 
child.  Seats  in  the  second  row,  if  you 
please,  Mrs.  Dibble.  In  a  thing  of  this  kind 
it  is  well  to  be  near  enough  to  study  the  ex 
pression  of  the  performer's  face;  and  oue 
likes  to  forget  the  crowd  when  it's  poetry. 
I'm  sure  sister  Finetta  will  be  pleased  to  hear 
about  old  Mr.  Peters's  grandson." 

Lafayette  Hall  was  a  dingy,  ill -lighted 
room  over  the  second  floor  of  the  building 
in  which  Mrs.  Dibble  kept  her  shop.  To  the 
young  people  it  was  associated  with  the  in 
termittent  delights  of  performances  with 
trained  dogs  and  canaries ;  by  Blind  Tom, 
a  negro  pianist  who  could  repeat  every  air 
suggested  to  him  by  the  audience,  and  play 
better  with  his  hands  behind  him  than  most 
of  his  hearers  in  the  natural  attitude ;  by 
the  tuueful  Hutchinsou  family,  who  stood  in 
a  row  and  warbled;  by  jugglers  always  in 
teresting,  and  returned  missionaries  less  al 
luring  to  the  young;  of  May  exhibitions  of 
female  seminaries,  whereat  the  pupils  iu  book- 
muslin  with  arbor-vitai  wreaths  recited  be 
fore  applauding  parents  poems  iu  honor  of 
their  queen,  and  were  afterwards  regaled 
with  lemonade  and  cake.  It  was  there  that 
Gay,  as  first  lady-in-waiting,  had  once  re 
tired  behind  the  queen's  throne  in  tears. 


201 


because  her  majesty  had  not  scrupled  to 
twit  her  with  wearing  one  of  Aunt  Pen's 
muslins  "made  over" — which  was  too  true. 
Even  now  Gay  could  not  divest  herself  of 
the  exhilaration  produced  by  the  sight  of 
that  green  baize  curtain  and  the  oil-lamps 
serving  as  footlights.  When,  on  the  evening 
of  the  chevalier's  de"but,  she  came  into  the 
hall,  she  nodded  on  every  side  to  her  friends, 
with  a  feeling  that  this  was  life.  Mrs.  Dib 
ble,  whose  person  was  attired  in  grass-green 
mousseline  de  laine,  with  a  wide  collar  of 
dotted  net,  trimmed  with  cotton  lace,  took 
tickets  at  the  door ;  and  in  a  conspicuously 
good  seat  sat  Viney  Piper,  the  little  day- 
dressmaker,  whose  passion  for  the  drama  led 
her  to  patronize  every  respectable  show  that 
came  to  town.  Viuey  had  arrived  upon  the 
opening  of  the  doors  at  six  o'clock,  and  the 
performance  was  advertised  to  begin  at 
half-past  seven.  She  was  an  odd-looking, 
albino  sort  of  creature,  with  pinkish  eyes 
and  eyelids,  pale  flaxen  hair,  and  a  hook 
nose  much  to  one  side  of  her  face.  The 
chevalier,  entering  the  hall,  had  canght 
sight  of  her  on  his  way  to  the  rear  of  the 
stage,  and  forthwith  executed  a  sweeping 
bow  that  Viuey  thought  the  perfection  of 
foreign  elegance. 


202 


When  the  liall  was  fairly  filled,  anil  the 
shuffling  of  feet  announced,  the  right  degree 
of  impatience  on  the  part  of  the  audience, 
the  curtain,  pulled  up  by  the  performer  him 
self,  rose  upon  a  stage  empty  save  for  a 
small  pine  table  displaying  a  white  china 
water-pitcher  and  a  goblet.  M.  Alcibiade, 
weaving  a  suit  of  rusty  black,  with  a  scarlet- 
satin  stock  and  white-kid  gloves,  an  order 
in  his  button-hole,  his  hair  fiercely  ruffled, 
and  his  eyes  gleaming  at  some  foe  unknown, 
holding  a  dinner-knife  in  his  clinched  hand, 
stalked  on  the  scene.  At  this  alarming  ap 
parition  a  little  girl  sitting  by  her  mamma 
burst  into  tears,  and  had  to  be  consoled  with 
gum-drops  from  the  parental  pocket,  inter 
spersed  with  audible  assurances  that  the 
gentleman  meant  no  harm.  Opening  his 
lips,  Alcibiade  poured  forth  a  cataract  of 
words,  of  which  the  most  advanced  French 
scholars  in  Miss  Meechin's  senior  class  could 
make  neither  head  nor  tail.  He  raved,  he 
roared,  he  ranted ;  then  seizing  a  goblet 
from  the  table,  half  tilled  it  with  water, 
and,  holding  the  dagger  in  his  other  hand, 
advanced  to  the  footlights  cjilling  on  Heaven 
to  end  his  woes.  At  last,  drinking  the  con 
tents  of  the  poisoned  cup,  he  threw  away 
the  dinner-knife,  and  fell  with  a  gurgling 


203 


groan  and  a  crash  that  made  the  lamps  rat 
tle  iu  the  chaudelier.  This,  by  agreement 
•with  Mrs.  Dibble,  was  the  signal  for  that 
worthy  lady  to  hurry  behind  the  scenes  and 
let  fall  the  curtain  on  the  direful  sight ;  but 
she,  unfortunately,  stood  like  a  stock,  aver 
ring  afterwards  that  her  blood  was  "  that 
cruddled  with  awr  she  couldn't  'a'  budged 
a  mite  !"  Next,  M.  Alcibiade,  coming  slowly 
back  to  life,  sat  up  to  confront  the  audience 
with  a  snaile  of  absolute  fatuity;  then 
scrambling  to  his  feet,  bowed,  kissed  his 
hand,  and,  going  off,  let  the  green  baize  de 
scend  on  act  the  first. 

It  was  long  since  Belhaven  had  enjoyed 
such  a  merry  spectacle.  The  school-girls 
leading  off  with  infectious  giggles,  every 
bench  caught  the  contagion,  and  only  Viney 
Piper,  mopping  real  tears  from  her  eyes,  an 
nounced  herself  a  connoisseur  of  true  art. 

The  rest  of  the  programme,  although  less 
explosive,  met  with  hysterically  suppressed 
mirth.  Before  its  close,  indeed,  the  audi 
ence  had  filtered  slowly  from  the  hall,  leav 
ing  only  the  faithful  Viney  and  Mrs.  Dibble, 
the  newspaper-carrier  (who  was  stone-deaf), 
a  scrub-woman  with  her  baby  in  arms,  and 
a  few  citizens  who  exacted  their  money's 
worth. 


204 


It  was  evident  that  provincial  taste  had 
not  been  educated  to  the  dramatic  standard 
of  old  Mr.  Peters's  grandson.  Alcibiade, 
failing  in  other  occupations,  sank  from  pov 
erty  to  want.  One  day  when  Miss  Viney 
Piper,  arriving  at  the  Berkeleys'  house  in 
Princess  Koyal  Street,  had  established  her 
self  in  the  sewing-room,  the  ladies  in  sub 
missive  attitudes  before  her,  the  little  dress 
maker  could  hardly  wait  to  dispose  of  busi 
ness  before  introducing  the  subject  near 
her  heart. 

"Just  keep  on  running  up  them  skirt- 
widths,  Miss  Gay  ;  an'  Miss  Penelope,  ma'am, 
you  could  be  gofterin'  that  sleeve  while  I  get 
the  body  ready  to  try  on,"  she  said,  marshal 
ling  her  forces  like  a  general  in  command. 
"Did  you  hear  the  news — that  old  Mr.  IV- 
ters's  grandson  ain't  expected  to  live  the  day 
out  ?  Fairly  starved,  I  reckon,  'fore  he'd  let 
Mrs.  Dibble  know,  an'  he  sleepin'  in  a  hole 
of  an  attic  at  the  Drovers'  Hotel — kinder  low 
fever,  uothin'  catchin',  the  doctor  says,  but 
nothin'  to  bring  him  up  again.  Such  a 
beautiful  genius  he  is,  ma'am,  an'  a  temper 
like  a  child,  for  all  ho  looks  so  fierce." 

"  Starving !  What  do  you  mean,  Viney  ?" 
said  Miss  Penelope,  excitedly.  "  Go,  Gay, 
fetch  me  my  bonnet  and  mantilla,  and  help 


205 


Susan  to  pack  a  basket  with  sonic  things. 
How  conies  it  that  nobody  knew  ?" 

"  It's  all  right  for  the  present,  Miss  Penel 
ope,  ma'am,"  said  Viney,  blushing.  "  That's 
what's  kep'  me  a  little  late  this  mornin'.  I 
took  up  a  few  trifles,  an'  Mrs.  Dibble  she's 
got  somebody  to  mind  the  store,  and  is  to 
stay  with  him  all  day.  But  if  you'd  let 
Peggy  put  on  a  chicken  to  boil  down  for 
jelly,  it  wouldn't  be  wasted  if — •"  here  she 
swallowed  once  or  twice  and  stabbed  her 
pin-cushion  —  "if  the  pore  Mounseer  can't 
make  no  use  of  it." 

The  "pore  Mouuseer,"  however,  surviving 
the  day  under  Mrs.  Dibble's  kindly  care,  and 
finding  no  lack  of  nourishment  during  the 
days  that  followed,  was,  with  the  assistance 
of  a  subscription  among  some  charitable 
people,  transferred  in  the  course  of  a  week 
to  a  spare  room  let  to  single  gentlemen  by 
Mrs.  Piper,  Viuey's  mother,  which  by  happy 
accident  had  been  recently  vacated. 

The  Pipers  lived  in  one  of  the  small  frame- 
houses  bnilt  to  open  directly  upon  the  moss- 
encircled  bricks  set  diagonally  in  the  ancient 
sidewalk  of  a  modest  street.  Their  door- 
stone  of  white  marble  was  accounted  in  the 
neighborhood  a  badge  of  distinguishing  ele 
gance,  as  was  also  a  small  brass  oval  serving 


206 


as  a  bell-pull,  when  most  people  used  knock 
ers,  or  "  knuckles,"  the  gossips  would  aver. 
The  late  Mr.  Piper  bad  beeu  a  seafaring 
man,  and  bad  risen  to  be  first  mate  of  tbe 
brig  Polly  and  Nancy,  when,  on  a  return 
voyage  from  Cadiz  with  a  cargo  of  fruit, 
salt,  and  wines,  bound  for  Belbaven  port,  be 
was  swept  overboard  in  a  hurricane  and  lost. 
Tbe  best  room  of  tbe  little  house,  into 
which  one  stepped  out  of  tbe  street  direct, 
was  a  sort  of  marine  museum  like  a  chill 
grotto,  suggesting  a  mermaid's  clutch  or  tbe 
grip  of  shark's  teeth.  Here  Mrs.  Piper  did 
not  care  to  raise  the  shades,  except  at  one 
side  window  permanently  darkened  by  a 
trellis  overgrown  with  a  vine  of  the  Isabella 
grape.  Tbe  children  of  Miss  Viney's  custom 
ers  liked  to  be  sent  to  make  appointments 
with  that  busy  little  body  ;  for  Mrs.  Piper, 
too  deaf  to  answer  questions,  and  droning 
her  explanations  in  a  sing-song  voice,  always 
showed  them  around  the  museum  with  great 
affability.  The  old  woman  usually  sat  in  a 
clean  kitchen  opening  upon  tbe  back  yard, 
where,  under  the  damson-trees  and  amid  the 
hundred-leaf  rose-bnshes,  were  constructed 
little  winding  walks,  edged  with  shells,  and 
leading  up  to  seats  made  of  a  whale's  back 
bone. 


207 


After  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Pierre  had  suc 
ceeded  in  obtaining  classes  iu  dancing  and 
deportment  that  enabled  him  to  live,  and 
had  settled  down  to  become  a  fixture  iu  the 
widow's  house,  his  spare  moments  were 
given  to  cultivating  flowers  iu  the  beds  be 
tween  the  shell-bordered  walks.  Everything 
grows  easily  in  soft  Belhaveu  air,  and  soon 
the  Pipers'  garden  became  a  proverb  iu  the 
place.  Mrs.  Piper's  only  complaint  against 
her  lodger  was  couched  in  the  expressive 
phrase,  <(  The  Lord  knows  how  often  he 
empties  his  water-jug";  but  even  a  distaste 
for  ablution  yielded  iu  time  to  the  insistent 
cleanliness  of  his  surroundings.  Sometimes, 
to  cheer  "Madame  Pipere"  in  her  solitude, 
Alcibiadc  would  descend  to  the  kitchen  and 
proffer  to  the  old  woman,  knitting  in  her 
suuuy  window-seat,  "  a  leetle  divertissement 
from  ze  classique  drama  of  La  France."  He 
had  a  vrai  inspiration  for  the  stage,  St. 
Pier.re  confessed  to  Viney,  and  but  for  polit 
ical  intrigue  would  be  now  in  bis  rightful 
place  on  the  boards  of  the  Th6atre  Francais. 
These  exhibitions',  repeating  the  celebrated 
performance  of  his  de"but  at  Lafayette  Hall, 
were  as  deeply  and  religiously  admired  by 
the  widow  as  by  her  daughter. 

One   day  occurred    a   variant    upon    the 


usual  exercise.  Alcibiadehad  always  treat 
ed  poor  lank  Viuey  as  if  she  were  one  of  the 
great  ladies  of  the  court  in  bondage  to  bis 
ancestor's  curling-tongs ;  but  she  was  unpre 
pared  for  the  scene  that  greeted  her  return 
when,  having  stepped  down  to  Slater's  for  ;i 
spool  of  "  forty  "  cotton,  she  found  the  chev 
alier,  in  his  best  black  suit,  wearing  white 
kid  gloves,  and  holding  a  bouquet  in  oue 
hand,  kneeling  at  Mrs.  Piper's  feet  and  kiss 
ing  her  finger-tips  with  reverence. 

"  I  ask  yon,  madame,  for  the  hand  of  your 
beautiful  and  admirable  child  in  marriage," 
was  what  Viney  and  the  whole  neigborhood 
within  ear-shot  heard  him  roar. 

Viney,  with  all  her  good  qualities,  was  a 
bit  of  a  virago.  The  absurdity  of  the  pro 
ceeding,  and  the  sense  that  her  adjacent  ac 
quaintances  were  laughing  at  her  affairs, 
flooded  her  thin  skin  with  blushes  and  her 
soul  with  anger.  While  Mrs.  Piper,  scared 
out  of  her  wits,  was  about  to  open  her.lips 
for  a  feeble  screech,  Viney  whisked  into  the 
kitchen,  snatched  Alcibiade's  bouquet,  threw 
it  away  into  a  parsley-be'd,  and  boxed  the 
professor's  ears. 

"  You'd  better  believe  I  give  'im  a  piece 
of  my  mind,"  she  narrated  afterwards  to  Miss 
Penelope  and  Gay.  "  But,  bless  you,  he 


209 


cried  so  pitiful,  an'  begged  our  pardons  so 
kind  o'  honorable,  I  bad  not  the  heart  to 
turn  him  ont  o'  the  house  like  I  threatened 
to.  Them  white  kids,  Miss  Gay !  An'  at 
bis  age,  an'  mine!  The  notion's  too  cry  in' 
ridic'lous."  And  she  snapped  a  seam  into 
the  beak  of  her  sewing-bird  with  vicious 
emphasis,  giving  at  the  same  time  a  sidelong 
glance  into  the  mirror,  and  a  complacent 
toss  of  the  head. 

No  one  could  be  long  in  the  chevalier's 
company  without  discovering  that  a  very 
dove  of  gentleness  and  affectionate  gratitude 
dwelt  iu  his  gaunt  envelope  of  flesh.  So,  re 
straining  his  pretensions  as  a  lover,  he 
meekly  accepted  Miss  Viney's  fiat,  and  went 
about  the  town  looking  as  warlike  as  ever, 
but  inwardly  carrying  a  broken  spirit.  One 
of  his  dancing-class  encountered  him  cross 
ing  a  windy  common  iu  the  suburbs  of  the 
town  pursued  by  a  flock  of  geese,  from  whose 
sibilant  obloquy  he  was  making  nervous 
efforts  to  escape ;  and  it  was  known  to  the 
boys  and  girls  that  the  chevalier  was  al 
ways  alarmed  by  the  apparition  of  a  spider 
or  a  cow.  No  wonder  the  young  people  de 
cided  that  Alcibiade  had  been  reduced  to 
pulp  by  Miss  Viney's  vigorous  rejection  of 
his  suit.  The  little  dress-maker's  peppery 

14 


temper  was  familiar  to  the  offspring  of  her 
customers,  from  whom  she  would  stand  no 
trifling  around  her  temporary  throne  in  their 
respective  households. 

When  the  war  between  the  States  broke 
out,  Viney  seemed  to  have  found  her  des 
tined  vocation  as  a  red-hot  secessionist. 
Not  very  clear,  fundamentally,  as  to  what 
she  resented  on  the  part  of  the  national 
authorities  at  the  other  end  of  the  Long 
Bridge,  some  eight  miles  away,  she  threw 
out  her  rebel  banner  on  the  wall,  sang 
"  Dixie"  in  her  shrill  treble,  declaimed,  pro 
tested,  and,  in  short,  kept  everybody  in  her 
vicinity  in  a  boiling  state  of  excitement 
about  the  condition  of  political  affairs. 
When  the  Belhaveu  regiments  went  on  to 
Kichmond  or  Mauassas,  Viney  stitched  her 
fingers  to  the  bone  making  shirts  for  them, 
while  Mrs.  Piper  knit  socks  of  gray  wool  as 
fast  as  her  needles  conld  fly.  They  also 
turned  out  a  number  of  the  white  linni 
havelocks  and  gaiters  adopted  by  one  of  the 
companies  and  afterward  discarded  as  a  too 
shining  mark  for  opposing  riflemen.  Viney 
trotted  to  the  train  to  see  the  boys  go  off, 
and  stood  there  in  the  crowd,  cheering  and 
waving  with  the  best.  As  she  watched  the 
last  car  recede  on  two  gleaming  lines  o'f  steel, 


211 


its  rear  platform  tbrouged  with  gesticulat 
ing  shapes  in  gray,  she  felt  her  heart  inflate 
and  her  stature  grow  with  a  yearning  desire 
to  go  out  and  fight  or  do  something  helpful  in 
their  ranks. 

When  she  turned  to  walk  home  that 
afternoon  of  balmy  spring,  there,  haunting 
her  footsteps,  was  the  faithful  Alcibiade. 
He  looked  into  her  watery  blue  eyes  as  if 
imploring  to  be  allowed  to  speak  his  sym 
pathy. 

"Have  it  out,  an'  be  done  with  it,  for 
gracious'  sake,"  said  Viney,  pettishly.  His 
smooth-finished  black  coat,  his  waxed  mous 
tache,  the  bunch  of  jonquils  in  his  button 
hole,  fretted  her  beyond  endurance. 

"  Those  tears  for  the  brave,  they  are 
a  beuison,"  said  Alcibiade,  sen  ti  men  tally. 
"  Who  would  not  be  inspired  by  them  to 
deeds  of  glory  ?" 

"It's  not  the  boys  I'm  cryin'  for,"  said 
Viney.  "It's  us  that  are  left  behind  and 
have  got  to  put  our  necks  under  the  vandal's 
heel."  That  "vandal"  afforded  a  famous 
outlet  for  secession  wrath  in  those  days ;  it 
may  be  doubted  whether  the  war  could  have 
been  carried  on  without  him.  "Oh!  if 't 
worn't  for  mother,  d'ye  think  I'd  stay  ?  I'd 
go  to-movrow,  an'  carry  a  water-pail  to  fill 


212 


canteens;  or  I'd  nurse  in  hospitals — or  any 
thing." 

"  It's  a  noble,  a  sacred  cause,"  replied  the 
chevalier,  looking  down  at  the  toe  of  his 
varnished  boot  to  avoid  the  needle-point  of 
her  eye.  "You  will  permit  me,  chere  Mees 
Viney,  to  mingle  with  yours  my  prayers  for 
its  success  ?  When  I  think  that  this  Vir 
ginia  that  has  sheltered  two  exiles  of  our 
house —  my  ancestor,  who  came  here  to  find 
a  home,  a  bride,  a  thousand  friends,  a  thou 
sand  tendernesses;  and  me,  less  fortunatf, 
but  ever  grateful  for  the  hour  that  brought 
5*011,  an  angel  of  goodness,  to  my  rescue  in 
distress — ' 

"  That's  neither  here  uor  there,"  inter 
rupted  Viuey,  cruelly.  "  Besides,  it  was  as 
much  Mrs.  Dibble  as  me,  anyway." 

"  But  you  will  not  deny  me  the  privilege 
of  sharing  your  patriotic  anxiety  for  the 
welfare  of  the  troops  f  You  will  allow  my 
heart  to  beat  in  unison  with  yours  ?" 

"  Nobody  ain't  a-preventiu'  your  heart 
doin'  what  it  pleases,"  said  the  uncompro 
mising  lady  of  his  love,  now  fairly  out  of 
patience  with  his  phrasing.  "  But  it's  deeds, 
not  words,  that  show  what  a  man's  worth 
nowadays.  When  I  think  what  a  fool  I 
used  to  be  'bout  fine  talkiif .  an'  how  I  be- 


213 


lieved  if  a  feller  spread  himself  in  speechi- 
fyin'  he  was  botm'  to  be  a  hero,  it  makes  me 
fairly  sick.  I'd  rather  have  the  little  finger 
o'  oiie  o'  them  privates  that's  in  the  train 
we  hear  whistlin'  up  yonder  —  bless  their 
souls!  —  than  the  whole  body  of  a  dandy 
Jim  that  stays  at  home.  But,  law  me.  I'm 
foolish  talkin'  such  stuff  to  you" 

Foolish  and  manifestly  unjust,  we  will 
agree  with  her.  But  Viney's  seed  was  not 
sown  on  barren  soil,  as  we  shall  see.  From 
that  date  the  chevalier's  moustaches  lost 
their  jaunty  curl,  his  eye  its  martial  fire. 
The  dancing -school  declining  with  the 
growth  of  military  rule  in  town,  his  occupa 
tion  was  chiefly  to  walk  along  the  streets 
picking  up  such  rumors  and  crumbs  of  gossip 
abont  the  movements  of  either  army  as  might 
bring  aspark  of  interest  into  the  orbs  of  Miss 
Viney  on  his  return  to  the  widow's  house. 

The  days  of  June  wore  on,  and  Viney's 
temper,  taxed  by  anxiety  abont  the  issue  of 
the  approaching  battle,  became  more  tart, 
her  taunts  more  frequent ;  but  the  chevalier 
suddenly  seemed  to  take  heart  and  to  walk 
with  a  firmer  tread.  One  night  he  did  not 
return  to  sleep  in  his  tidy  bedroom,  and 
Viuey,  going  into  it,  found  a  letter  addressed 
to  herself  upon  the  table. 


214 


"Adieu,  my  benefactress,  beautiful  inspira 
tion  of  my  unworthy  life  "  (the  chevalier  had 
written),  "  I  fly  to  win  the  approval  of  your 
noble  tears  or  to  sleep  eternally  upon  the 
soldier's  bloody  conch.  To  yon,  in  tliis  .su 
preme  moment,  I  dare  avow  a  truth  for 
which  my  manhood  does  not  blush — that  I 
have,  until  now,  held  back  because  of  a 
weakness  of  temperament  that  made  my 
Bonl  blanch  at  thought  of  the  soldier's  bap 
tism  of  fire.  Now  that  the  struggle  is  over, 
I  am  resolved  to  ally  myself  with  the  ar 
mies  of  the  South,  that  has  given  me  a 
shelter,  and  given  me  yon,  adored  one,  whose 
hand  I  embrace  in  spirit,  with  that  of  your 
respected  mother;  to  whom,  and  to  you,  the 
salutations  the  most  distinguished  of  your 
all-devoted.  ALCIBIADE." 

"The  land  o'  Dixie !"  cried  out  Miss  Vim-y. 
"  If  that  pore  erector's  in  earnest  I'll  never 
draw  a  free  breath  till  he  gets  back." 

M.  Alcibiade  was  very  much  in  earnest. 
A  few  days  later  Miss  Viney  had  a  visit 
from  a  lawyer  who  informed  her  that  the 
Frenchman,  before  going  through  the  lines 
to  enlist  in  the  Southern  army,  had  caused 
to  be  drawn  up  a  will  bequeathing  to  lu-r 
some  hundreds  of  dollars  which  by  frugality 


215 


and  care  he  had  saved  during  his  residence 
beneath  their  roof.  Viney  had  an  honest 
crying-fit  after  the  lawyer  left,  and,  patting 
on  her  bonnet,  sped  down  to  Princess  Royal 
Street  to  take  counsel  with  the  Misses  Berke 
ley  as  to  the  best  way  of  tracing  the  absent 
one  and  conveying  to  him  some  token  of  her 
appreciation  and  regard.  Those  ladies  could 
give  her  little  hope.  They  promised,  how 
ever,  to  write  recommending  Alcibitide  to 
the  care  and  kind  offices  of  their  friends  in 
Belhaveu  regiments,  should  the  Frenchman 
find  his  way  among  his  old  acquaintances 
and  pupils;  and  with  this  Viuey  was  forced 
to  be  content. 

After  Bull  Run,  Manassas;  and  after  Ma- 
nassas,  a  breathing-space  in  which  North  and 
South  held  themselves  in  check,  dreading  to 
pierce  the  veil  shadowing  the  future  of  the 
conflict.  In  the  dusk  of  a  warm  summer 
evening,  when  Viney  had  carried  out  a 
bucket  of  fresh  water  with  which  to  drench 
and  cool  the  already  clean  bit  of  pavement 
appertaining  to  their  front  door,  a  country 
wagon  with  a  hooded  canopy  of  canvas, 
drawn  by  mules  and  driven  by  a  long-legged 
rustic  in  a  linen  duster,  wearing  a  broad 
straw  hat,  pulled  up  beside  the  curb.  Inside 
could  be  heard  the  cackle  of  resentful  fowls. 


216 


The  driver,  carrying  a  basket  of  eggs,  leaned 
over  and  accosted  her. 

"No;  I  don't  want  anything  to-day,  I'm 
'bliged  to  ye,"  began  Viney  —  and  broke 
down  with  a  gasp.  "Good  Lord  !  It's  yon, 
Monnseer  1" 

"It  is,  charming  Mees  Viney,"  said  the 
pretended  fanner,  with  a  warm  grasp  of  her 
hand.  "Hush!  Not  a  word  that  the  neigh 
bors  can  overhear." 

"But  I  don't  understand;  you  are  not  in 
the  army,  after  all  ?" 

"There  are  ways  and  ways  of  being  a  sol 
dier,"  he  went  on  iu  a  low  whisper.  "Be 
lieve  me  when  I  tell  you  I  have  kept  my 
word.  Take  a  few  of  these  eggs  and  count 
them  into  a  dish  or  basket — yes ;  your  apron 
will  do  —  that  I  may  go  on  talking  without 
fear.  Then  I  will  find  it  troublesome  to  gif 
you  change." 

"  But  where  in  the  land  did  you  come 
from  ?"  she  asked,  burning  with  curiosity. 

"  Ma  foi,  from  a  Union  camp,  to-day. 
where  the  soldiers  have  left  me  little  to  sell 
to  you,  belle  dame.  To-morrow  at  daybreak 
—  for  I  shall  find  fresh  mules  outside  the 
town  —  I  present  myself  to  a  general  whom 
a  Frenchman  is  proud  to  serve  —  ze  peer 
less  Beauregard." 


"You  are  — you  are — "  she  began,  her 
face  blanched,  her  teeth  chattering. 

"  Never  mind  what  I  am  ;  let  me  but  look 
once  more  upon  that  face  of  which  I  so  ofteu 
dream,  and  then  I  must  hasten  away." 

"  Oh,  go,  go ! "  she  pleaded.  "  It  was  per 
fect  madness  for  you  to  come  here.  Not 
ten  minutes  ago  a  patrol  of  Yankee  soldiers 
walked  down  this  street." 

"Bah!"  he  said,  with  a  shrug,  ""have  I 
riot  enjoyed  the  company  of  their  compa 
triots  all  day  ?  But  for  your  sake  I  will  go. 
Have  no  fear  belle  Viuey;  you  will  hear 
from  me  again." 

Was  this  the  timid,  the  cringing  Alcibi- 
ade?  Viuey  asked  herself  all  through  a  sleep 
less  night.  Many  and  many  a  night  there 
after  she  was  destined  to  toss  and  wonder 
as  to  his  fate.  In  the  autumn  she  had  aline 
from  him,  left  by  a  wood-seller  from  far  up 
in  the  interior  of  the  county ;  he  was  safe 
and  well,  and  still  in  the  service  of  the  em 
ployer  who  retained  him  when  he  had  seen 
her  last ;  and  he  was  always  her  devoted 
and  faithful  A.  de  St.  P. 

After  that  a  blank  of  long  years  extend 
ing  to  the  close  of  the  dreadful  war. 

Viney  had  given  him  up  for  dead,  of 
course ;  had  put  ou  mourning  and  made 


218 


lier  mother  do  the  same ;  and  everybody 
said  how  strange  it  was  that  Viney  Piper 
should  msike  all  that  fuss  about  a  man  that 
just  walked  out  of  her  house  one  day  and 
gave  her  the  "go-by"  without  a  word. 
She  could  never  persuade  herself  to  touch  a 
penny  of  his  bequest,  but  had  consulted  her 
confidante,  Miss  Penelope,  about  the  propri 
ety  of  using  it  for  a  fine  monument  to  be 
erected  to  his  memory  in  the  Belhaven 
graveyard,  when  the  correspondent  of  a 
New  York  paper,  mousing  around  the  old 
Virginia  town  for  material,  announced  to 
the  public  that  he  had  discovered  the  iden 
tity  of  the  famous  and  daring  rebel  scout 
Peters,  who,  after  countless  adventures,  and 
escaping  the  noose  a  dozen  times  by  a  mir 
acle,  had  disappeared  from  sight.  This 
dashing  character,  it  was  confidently  stated, 
was  none  other  than  a  so-called  French 
dancing-master,  known  at  the  time  as  St. 
Pierre,  who  had  lived  in  Belhaven  pursuing 
his  harmless  occupation  for  some  years  prior 
to  the  war. 

In  the  comments  of  the  press  upon  this 
announcement  more  than  one  reminiscence 
of  Peters  was  soon  given  currency ;  and 
presently  the  editor  of  a  journal  in  an  ob- 
scuro  Western  town  wrote  to  the  New  York 


219 


paper  that  Peters,  alias  St.  Pierre,  alias  no- 
one-knew-what  beside,  was  then  actually  re 
siding  in  the  family  of  a  charitable  French 
man  of  his  locality,  having  survived  a  wound 
and  an  imprisonment  that  had  left  him  help 
less  upon  his  benefactor's  hands. 

When  this  was  .published  Viney's  friends 
saw  the  little  woman  smile.  Then  she  cried, 
then  she  fell  down  on  her  knees  and  thanked 
God  for  his  mercy,  and  lastly  she  packed  her 
little  trunk,  and  set  off  for  Illinois. 

"You  have  come  to  me,  and  I  was  too 
proud  to  bring  the  remains  of  me  to  you, 
belle  Viiiey !"  said  Alcibiade,  when  she  ar 
rived.  "  It  is  enough  for  me  to  see  yon,  to 
forget  that  prison  where  I  laid  so  long." 

Poor  little,  homely  Viney  was  utterly  over 
come.  She  took  his  thin  hand,  with  the 
claw-like  fingers,  and,  stooping  down,  kissed 
it  and  cried  over  it. 

"  Lord,  lay  not  this  sin  to  my  door !"  she 
said,  gazing  on  the  wreck  before  her  with  a 
sudden,  bitter  self-reproach.  "  Oh,  Mounseer, 
tell  me  that  you  forgive  me  for  what  I  drove 
you  to,  for  I'll  never  forgive  myself." 

"Listen  to  me,  Mees  Viney,"  the  French 
man  said,  looking  about  him  anxiously  to 
see  that  no  one  overheard.  "Yon  have 
done  for  me  what  a  thousand  times,  in  peril 


of  my  neck,  in  cold,  in  hunger,  in  a  prison 
cell,  I  have  thanked  yon  for  —  JTOU  have 
made  of  me  a  man  !  Son  Dieu,  a  man  !'' 

Viney  brought  him  back  to  the  little 
chamber  beneath  the  roof  of  Mrs.  Piper's 
house,  where  the  two  women  nursed  him 
into  comparative  comfort ;  health  he  might 
never  fully  know  again.  In  summer-time, 
his  chair  rolled  out  upon  one  of  the  shell- 
bordered  walks,  he  would  remain  gazing 
in  absolute  content  upon  Viney  sitting  on 
the  door-step  \vith  her  work.  In  his  eyes 
she  was  always  beautiful ;  and  when,  with 
many  misgivings,  she  one  day  consented  to 
let  Dr.  Falconer,  with  Miss  Penelope  and 
Gay  as  witnesses,  step  into  the  grotto  of 
marine  curiosities  and  make  her  Madame 
Alcibiade,  the  ex-spy  straightened  up  with 
something  of  his  old  dancing-master's  grace. 

"  Tit'tis  !  I  have  won  the  flower  of  woman 
hood,"  he  said.  And  so  he  thought  to  the 
last. 


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